


eyes on me

by honeybakedtea



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Body Worship, Eventual Smut, FE3H Kinkmeme, Humor, M/M, Self-Esteem Issues, Tender Sex, [felix voice]: his weed? i roll that. his tits? i hold that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:55:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26369053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeybakedtea/pseuds/honeybakedtea
Summary: There is Dimitri, clad in sinful wine-red. He is walking alongside Annette, with his hair tied in a low ponytail at the nape of his neck. His riding gloves are starch-white and pristine, and he has a belt cinched around his waist.A belt. Tight around his waist. Accentuating how trim it is, how easy it would be to grasp with both hands andpull.It is so narrow in comparison to his shoulders. And he issmiling.There is no question. Dimitri is doing this on purpose.Felix makes a strangled sound, right at the back of his throat, before he leaps out of his seat and sprints for the door.In which Felix has a problem.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Felix Hugo Fraldarius
Comments: 58
Kudos: 349
Collections: FE3H Kink Meme





	eyes on me

**Author's Note:**

> written for [this prompt on the kinkmeme.](https://3houseskinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/476.html?thread=54748#cmt54748) op, i want you to know that your brain is huge. so huge! thank you for my life!!
> 
> special huge huge thanks to [eza](https://twitter.com/eznochi) for betaing!! her edits were lifesavers. i really do mean it, because without her, dimitri would have two eyes. felix would have multiple tongues. felix would be drinking ceramic. the writing would be CLUNKY. the list goes on... i owe her my life
> 
> cw: slight mention of disassociation in the paragraph beginning with 'He's picking up momentum now', and cw for past malnourishment: it starts at 'It is difficult to forget the moment Felix had...' to 'It took a long time for Dimitri to reach that stage' if you want to skip it

Felix has a problem, and it is driving him insane.

It’s nearing sunset, and he has only just finished his drills in the training grounds. Even though the war has long ended, skirmishes are still rife along the borders of Fraldarius, where bandits continue to skulk around and wreak their havoc upon the people. The situation is irritating more than anything, but somebody has to keep them in line. 

That somebody used to be his father, but now, as the new Duke Fraldarius, the responsibility falls to Felix. It comes as no surprise to anyone, then, that he trains as rigorously as he did during the war.

The issue Felix is having, however, has nothing to do with the bandits in his territory. It actually lies at the other end of the hall, where Dimitri is sparring with someone in the far corner. Someone whose features blend so smoothly into the surroundings that they are essentially faceless, because right now, Dimitri is attracting all of his attention. 

His movements are fluid and purposeful as he dodges each blow. It’s almost as if he’s dancing, his lance a natural extension of his arm as he whirls it up and around his body, putting on a show that leaves Felix transfixed and utterly blinded. From this distance, Felix can only make out the more obvious details of Dimitri’s appearance as fights: a sleeveless black turtleneck which hugs his broad chest, dark, fingerless gloves adorning his hands, and tight black slacks which cling appealingly to his thighs. 

Dimitri’s thighs are thick, and muscular, and they move so swiftly. And Felix can’t stop staring.

His problem is exactly this. Felix can’t clean his sword in peace, nor can he focus on organising the weapons rack, or doing anything _useful,_ because for some reason he is finding it immensely difficult to look away from Dimitri. His _King._ Duke Felix Fraldarius can’t stop staring at his King—and his staring has nothing to do with matters of the state.

It’s insane, and it’s nothing like him, which makes it all the more infuriating.

Felix grinds his teeth. Why is the turtleneck so _tight?_ Dimitri has no right for it to be so tight. No right at all. 

In time, Dimitri knocks his opponent to the floor. A breathless grin graces his face, and the competitive flare to his movements slowly fades as he extends his hand to the contender.

When he turns to Felix, he is still grinning, broad and delighted in the way he only gets after he’s fought a match. He strides over, lance in one hand, until Felix is close enough that he can see how the sweat has collected along the lines of his biceps, and at the hollow of his elbow. Dimitri’s shadow casts over him as he comes to a halt, and he’s all big and built and his shoulders are so _wide_ and Felix hates him, suddenly, for how big he is.

“Felix!” Dimitri smiles. That smile. Fuck. It’s so wide. Why is everything about Dimitri so _big?_ It’s like looking at the sun. “How was that?”

“What?” Felix startles. He rearranges his face to a scowl, but evidently not fast enough, because Dimitri only laughs again.

His laugh is a beautiful sound. Half of Felix wants to catch it in a cage and play it in a music box. The other half wants to set himself on fire for even thinking of such an idea.

“My form,” Dimitri says, oblivious to how furiously Felix is flushing. “You were watching me for quite some time, Felix. Do you have any pointers for me?” He smiles, again, and it makes Felix’s teeth hurt. His fucking _teeth._

Truthfully, Felix has no concrete idea of how Dimitri performed, because he was hardly watching the match. The opponent may as well have been a demonic beast, and Felix would still not have given it the time of day.

The only thing he really remembers about the past half hour is Dimitri’s turtleneck. The way it had framed— _still_ frames—his broad shoulders, fitting snugly against the muscles of his chest and following the lines of his torso, all the way down to his trim waist. The waist Felix wants to place his hands around. Just to… measure the circumference of it. 

And his pants. His stupid pants, and the perfect way they hug his—

“Your footwork was shoddy,” Felix lies. He crosses his arms, and stares at the opposite wall. “You’ve done better.”

“Ah.” Dimitri’s face falls. His smile vanishes, and suddenly Felix feels rotten. “I will be sure to keep that in mind.” Dimitri pauses. “Although you will have to specifically point out to me where I failed, because I thought my footwork was acceptable today.”

It probably was. That’s the irony of it—Dimitri’s footwork was probably fine. It’s _Felix’s_ footwork that needs improvement. He had entered the training grounds this evening, seen Dimitri wave to him wearing a fucking _turtleneck,_ and had tripped over thin air right after.

Brought to his knees, all because of a fucking turtleneck.

Felix decides that he wants to burn the wretched thing.

“Fine,” Felix grumbles. He’s still staring off to the side. “Are you done here?”

Dimitri nods. “Sorry for keeping your time,” he apologises, before smiling at him. _Again._ “I will see you at dinner?”

He phrases it as a question, even though it doesn’t need to be. Whether it’s out of some strange sense of nostalgia or some weird wish fulfilment, Felix always finds himself taking his dinner with him.

A silence ensues. Dimitri, left hanging, coughs awkwardly. There is a response to be made here, somewhere, but Felix is distracted again, because Dimitri’s chest is right in front of him. 

His chest. It is very wide. It looks even wider with thin black fabric stretched across it. Distantly, Felix wonders how firm it is. Ever since Dimitri had started to eat properly again, his body began to fill out, slowly regaining the muscle and fat he had lost. Which means that his chest probably _is_ very firm. And plush. If Felix reached out a hand, he could even—

Felix grits his teeth. He forces himself away from Dimitri’s supple chest, and trains his eyes on his hopeful face, instead.

“If you insist,” Felix says, voice even. He prides himself on not sputtering when Dimitri gives him that tender expression he usually reserves for the castle orphans.

When Dimitri finally leaves the room, depositing his lance on the weapons rack as the passing servants gawk after the sight of their beautiful, fit, _toned_ king, Felix only swears under his breath, before allowing his face to fall into his hands.

He has a fucking problem, all right.

  
  
  
  


On the eve of the Millennium Festival, Felix and the others had found the husk of Dimitri skulking in the monastery ruins. 

He had been staring at a pile of rubble. After five long years of searching, during which he’d narrowly escaped being captured by Imperial troops on more than one occasion, the first glimpse Felix ever caught of his missing prince was of him snarling at a pile of _rubble_. At first, Felix had tried to throw a punch, but when that didn’t work, he had retreated, resolving simply to never look at Dimitri directly unless he really, truly had to.

It wasn’t because he was repulsive. Felix, as much as he’d insisted upon it—insisted upon how beastly Dimitri was—he had never truly found him repulsive. He could never, not when the mere sight of him served as a reminder of where Felix had failed. 

Dimitri’s cheeks had been gaunt, almost sunken. The shadow under his eye was a blackened crescent moon, and his hair had lain limp and thin against his pallid face. The eye itself had been dull, with little life beyond that clouded blue iris, and Felix had hated it. Hated it with a passion that surprises him even today.

Dimitri was _thin,_ too _._ He wasn’t starved to the point of death—his Crest prevented that from ever happening—but for a couple of months, it seemed like he was very nearly there. The remaining slivers of baby fat on his cheeks had disappeared, and his body looked like it was caving in on itself. Even his tongue was coated in white film, so thick it was nearly opaque.

A diet of weeds and rats wasn’t substantial for any man, but the true effects of starvation on Dimitri’s body had made Felix retch into the bushes when he first saw him without the ever-present armour.

It was terrifying. 

Felix knew, too, that Dimitri understood the routes to Fraldarius like the back of his hand. Remembered, for every day that passed with the reality of Dimitri being _dead_ hanging over him like a knife, that should he choose, Dimitri could direct himself to Fraldarius from any point in Faerghus. Yet not once in those five years had Dimitri ever returned to the Fraldarius estate, and sought help for himself.

Sometimes, Felix wonders whether Dimitri would have chosen to seek sanctuary in those five years, had he refused to allow him to go it alone.

  
  
  
  
  


Things are different, nowadays. Felix watches as Dimitri methodically brings spoonful after spoonful of hot leek soup to his mouth, and can’t help but marvel at the change in his eating habits. Dimitri eats with the correct cutlery, now, and takes the time to properly chew his food—unlike the few tentative meals after Gronder, where it had seemed like manners were a permanent fixture of the past.

Felix couldn’t care less about manners, though, because nowadays, Dimitri _eats._ Even though he can’t taste, he says that he finds the textures interesting, and appreciates the smells that drift into his office from the castle kitchens. He tells Felix that he actually pauses to consider the menu and chooses what seems favourable to him each day, instead of accepting whatever is given to him with a demure smile, as he did at the Academy.

More importantly, he _wants_ to eat. Even though it takes the force of two mountains to drag him away from his work, he _eats,_ wholeheartedly, and enjoys it.

It shows, too. Dimitri has put on more muscle since the war, seeing as he still trains as hard as ever, but he has also put on more weight in general. His face is fuller, and he is soft in places he wasn’t before. The knowledge of this, of Dimitri having a softness to him that is the product of his own efforts to take care of himself, warms Felix to his very core.

Dimitri reaches for the meat platter. Felix stares at the way he carefully spears the meat with his fork and places it delicately into his mouth, lips closing around the metal to suck it clean. His lips are cherry pink. Pretty and soft, probably, if Felix pressed his thumb there.

He hates this. Hates how Dimitri’s mouth makes him feel hot under the collar. They are a perfectly normal set of lips, and there is nothing remotely interesting about them. Felix wills his head to wrench itself out of the gutter, and back to the safe place that is Dimitri’s healthy eating habits.

He can look somewhere else. Anywhere else. Just not Dimitri’s mouth.

Felix’s eyes trail downwards. Thankfully, Dimitri has ditched the turtleneck for dinner, and today his eveningwear is a high-collared burgundy shirt. It covers every inch of his skin and is in line with Dimitri’s usual outfits.

It shouldn’t be arousing at all, but somehow, it _still_ leaves everything to Felix’s imagination, because the shirt _stretches_. It strains across Dimitri’s chest, making it look plush and round and, frankly, very squeezable.

Again. _Again,_ he is thinking about Dimitri’s chest.

Felix wants to die. He _is_ dying, because he has come down for dinner and is instead being murdered by Dimitri’s chest. Fucking fantastic.

Everything about Dimitri is offending. His shirt shows off his chest, and his hair is tied back so that his eye, lovely and bright, is uncovered by the usual bangs. His legs, Felix knows, are clad in dark brown breeches. They aren’t as tight as his training wear, but they hug his thighs in a way that is obscene. Felix heard the maids titter as Dimitri walked past the kitchens, with the shape of his thighs on display like that.

Felix is astonished, really, that Dimitri has picked such a modest outfit, and yet it still manages to be so… indecent. 

The worst thing about his stupid little problem is that Felix is the royal adviser. Part of his job—a very big part of his job, funnily enough—is that he _advises the king._ This means that he has to be in proximity with Dimitri for the larger part of his days in Fhirdiad. Which is a problem.

For example, he is required to attend council meetings. These are meetings where Dimitri sits at the head of a table, clad in kingly robes with his crown nestled in his hair. Meetings where his face is serious and grave, and when he speaks with an authority in his voice that Felix sometimes hears in his dreams. Murmuring between his legs, usually.

Felix curses. His throat is still as dry as sand, even though he has just downed a goblet of water. He forces himself back to that burgundy shirt, rather than the cadence of Dimitri’s voice, but he only hates it. Hates what it is hiding underneath.

It’s truly infuriating, the way Dimitri dresses himself. It’s not even just the stupid shirt, either—it’s the breeches, too, although at least they’re tucked under the table right now. Whatever pants Dimitri decides to wear, they always _cling,_ and effortlessly show off the width of his thighs. 

They are muscular thighs. Rider’s thighs. Felix has seen the muscles flex when he tenses. 

And they tense beautifully. He wants them tensing around his _head,_ as he bobs down on his—

Felix chokes, and scrabbles for the water.

“Felix?” Dimitri asks. He has put his fork down, and is staring at Felix with concern. That baby blue eye is so _bright._ So fucking bright. “Is something wrong?”

Yes. Dimitri is wearing too many clothes, and Felix wants to undress him layer by layer like some sort of dolled up, ribboned gift, and that is _very_ wrong. Wrong, because he is not a piece of _meat._ It’s Dimitri. _Dimitri._

“You have food stuck in your teeth,” Felix snaps. 

Then, he lurches out of his chair, leaving Dimitri to fumble for the water by himself, and stalks out of the dining hall.

  
  
  


Felix is going to fix his problem.

He settles back against the pillow. He already has one hand thumbing idly over his crotch, not bothering to properly take off his smallclothes. There is no point, since this will be quick.

And then he can sleep. Without thinking about Dimitri’s chest. Or his thighs.

Felix grits his teeth. 

Once. He will do this _once,_ and once only. That’s all. Maybe then he can finally go back to existing normally, before thoughts of Dimitri’s body started to haunt him like the fucking plague.

Slowly, Felix tugs himself free from his smallclothes. He lies there for a bit, cock in hand, feeling silly. Hesitant, too, because this is _Dimitri._ Dimitri, who has no idea about the effect he has on the general populace, let alone his closest adviser.

Felix forces himself to relax, and sinks back into the sheets. It’s fine. He’ll do this quickly, and then he’ll never tell Dimitri about it. Ever. 

What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

Felix slowly circles the tip of his cock with the pad of his finger, letting out a quiet groan as he drags his fingers down his length, all the way to the base. He gives a little twist to the motion, just as he likes it. The feeling makes his toes curl in, but when nothing more exciting happens than that, he stops with a huff. 

His body is too tense. 

Felix slides his fingers up and down, idly, and realises he’s too tense because he’s not doing what he wants to. Fuck. What he _wants_ to.

He exhales, breath ragged, relaxing again and he lets his mind wander. 

And, fucking hell, the first thing it conjures up is the image of Dimitri, who for some reason in his fantasies is in sheer black silks, with his hair splayed artfully about his face. Great. Fantastic.

Felix closes his eyes. He imagines darting a hand out and parting those silks. Dimitri in his mind’s eye is under him. His blush is pretty, and only gets darker as he arches his back and _moans,_ wanton. The sound is loud and downright _shameless_ as Dimitri twists in the sheets, silks falling open to reveal more of that beautiful, scarred skin. Felix feels his cock jerk under his hand at the sight of it.

“Felix…” Dimitri moans. He arches again, leaving the column of his neck bare and unblemished. “ _Touch me.”_

 _Fuck._ If he’s going to do this, he may as well go all out.

Felix swallows. His breath comes fast and shallow, and he tugs his cock harder, drags his fist along its length. He imagines himself bending over Dimitri, touching his forehead to his own.

“Where?” he breathes. “Tell me where.”

Dimitri groans. He sounds so desperate—as if he’ll die if Felix doesn’t get his hands all over him. Then, begging, “You _know_ where.”

His face is flushed, and he looks delirious. _Ravaged._ And Felix isn’t a saint. Not even a saint could resist this.

Felix slips a hand along the opening of the fabric before roughly jerking it off. The silks rip, and leave Dimitri’s shoulders bare. In Felix’s mind, they are flushed and red, bitten with bruises, but more importantly, his chest is _right there._ Plush and open and inviting, all for him to devour.

Felix imagines leaning forward and taking a nipple into his mouth. He imagines swirling his tongue around the soft nub of it, and reaching up with his hand to flick the other, playing with them both until they stiffen under his touch. Dimitri gasps and writhes in the sheets, calling Felix’s name brokenly, and cups the back of Felix’s head with both of his large hands to press Felix more firmly into his chest. Felix pins him down and suckles harder, laving his tongue over his nipple before he reaches down to palm at Dimitri’s crotch, grinning with devilish satisfaction at hearing his king keen and cry his name like a prayer as he moves faster and buries his face into his broad chest—

Felix cries out. He doesn’t stifle his groans, and shudders bodily as his come, thick and white, spurts over the sheets.

 _Fuck._ Fuck. He stares at the mess he’s made, and realises, dazed, that this is the hardest he’s ever come in his life. 

This is all because he got off to the thought of sucking Dimitri’s _tits._ He had made up a whole fantasy of it, of him sticking his face into Dimitri’s broad chest, like an animal, and sucking on his tits until he was in tears.

Felix rides out the high until he’s boneless and limp in his blankets. Once the haze of his fantasy fades away, he stiffens. 

What the hell. What the _hell._ Fuck. Felix wants to find a hole and bury himself in it, his duties be damned.

Unfortunately for him, there is no nearby hole for him to throw himself in. Instead, Felix sinks back into the covers, carefully grabs his pillow with his clean hand, and places it over his face.

Then, he screams.

  
  
  
  


Morning comes like a pain in the ass, and Felix wakes like a dead man coming to life. He is still lying twisted in his sheets, stained with the mortifying outcome of the previous night. Both his right hand and his blanket are sticky, and Felix grimaces as he slowly sits up.

The recollection of last night’s little fantasy comes to him in reluctant fragments. Felix decides, without much thought, that his life is terrible.

It is funny, then, what happens when he opens the door to toss out the sheets. Felix thought that things couldn’t get much worse, but the Goddess that may or may not exist loves to prove him wrong, because his door swings open to the man who is making his life unbearable in the first place.

“Felix—” Dimitri begins, without preamble, and Felix yelps. He scrambles to hide his hand behind his back, and tosses the sheets far out of reach. Once the evidence is hidden, he attempts to slam the door on Dimitri’s face.

 _“What?”_ Felix shouts. His voice is so loud and _high_. He hates it immediately, but Dimitri just looks alarmed, and a bit concerned.

Felix looks away from that frown, and his eyes travel downwards, instead. Today, he is wearing—

No. _No._ Felix is not doing this. Not after last night.

“Felix, what is the matter?” Dimitri asks, gently prying the door open with one hand as Felix hurls his entire weight against it. It takes Dimitri no effort at all, the bastard. “What are you doing with your… bedsheets?”

He tilts his head to the side, questioning. He really has no idea what Felix could be doing with his own bedsheets at a time when no one else in the castle is awake.

Felix breathes out, slowly.

“Washing them,” he informs Dimitri. He keeps his voice flat. “Is there a problem?”

“No, but… you have a maid,” Dimitri says, puzzled. 

“Well, sometimes I like doing things myself,” Felix snaps. This is a lie; he always leaves his washing to the maid. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

“Ah. Yes,” Dimitri fumbles. He wrings his hands, and his frown twists into a horribly awkward grimace. It’s an expression Felix only knows him to wear when he feels pitying. Or embarrassed. “I came to tell you that I was walking down the hallway last night, and came past your room. I apologise, it is a terrible breach of your privacy, but—I could hear you through the door.”

 _Why was he up so late?_ is the first, irritated thought to come to Felix’s mind, before he goes rigid.

Dimitri. Had heard him. Had fucking _heard_ him through the door as he came so hard he nearly blacked out. 

He didn’t say Dimitri’s name, did he? Felix can’t even remember if he said Dimitri’s name when he came. But Dimitri had still been _outside his door._

Felix wants to dissolve.

“What?” he croaks.

“I could not help it,” Dimitri says, shaking his head. He looks sheepish, and wry, as if Felix isn’t turning the colour of a tomato right in front of him. “You were quite loud.”

Felix sputters. _Loud._ He was loud, and Dimitri heard him through his _thick wooden door._

He cannot fathom how straight-faced Dimitri is being right now. Is this what he was like last night? Completely straight-faced while he eavesdropped on Felix fantasising about sucking his tits until his teeth marks were imprinted onto his skin?

Felix hates himself, suddenly, because the only thing his mind is helpfully supplying him with now is that the thought of Dimitri listening to him is— _hot_. And infuriating. Because Dimitri is so calm about this, and he _isn’t._

He’s not calm at all, because Dimitri _heard_ him, and now his voice refuses to work.

Dimitri coughs, lightly. “I only came here to let you know, that… if you wish for my company, I would be happy to oblige.” He pauses, and gazes at Felix, entirely earnest. “I know it can get… difficult, trying to deal with it by yourself.” 

Dimitri’s gaze is so tender. _Why the fuck is he so_ tender, Felix thinks, until he takes in what Dimitri is _really_ saying, and feels the world spin. 

“So, if you would have me… “

What the fuck what the fuck _what the fuck—_

“What are you—why— _Dimitri!”_ Felix’s ears burn.

Why is he—why is he _offering to—_

Dimitri raises his palms, placating. His brow is furrowed. “Are you truly all right on your own?” he asks, a hint of confusion in his voice. “Do they not disturb you?” 

He speaks as if it is the most obvious thing in the world. His mouth is turned down at the corners, in a way that makes Felix want to press his fingers into it.

It is here, when Felix is staring at his mouth again, that he realises Dimitri… is far too calm for this.

“What?” Felix hisses.

“Your… nightmares?”

… Nightmares.

Dimitri still looks confused. Worried. Felix, on the other hand, wants to drive his head into a wall.

 _Nightmares._ Dimitri had thought he’d been having nightmares, because Felix had screamed into a pillow last night.

Fucking hell.

Felix sighs. He is never jumping to conclusions ever again.

“Felix?” Dimitri asks again, hesitant.

“... Yes. Nightmares,” Felix answers, rubbing his eyes. Fucking _hell._ “Right.” 

This is too much for such an early time in the morning. The sun filters through the window on the far side of the room, landing on his rumpled bed as if everything is still normal. As if Felix’s mind isn’t torturing him by coming up with images of him and Dimitri in that bed together, of Dimitri’s face and Dimitri’s chest and Dimitri’s thighs and the way his pupils would dilate if he ever heard Felix moan his name— 

Felix makes a choked sound. Dimitri reaches a hand out to steady him, and this time, Felix can’t help but look. 

Dimitri is wearing his eyepatch. Felix doesn’t dare let his gaze travel lower than his neck, but there is more than enough time for him to notice that Dimitri’s face is scrubbed clean, and that his eye crinkles at the corners, his mouth curving up into a small smile.

Saints. His heart feels like a rabbit’s, small and weak, all because of Dimitri’s _smile._

Felix wants to _die._

“Get out of my room,” is what comes out of his mouth in the end, and Dimitri only makes a small noise of confusion before Felix has shoved him out.

Once he’s out of earshot, Felix groans. He brings his hand out from behind his back. It is still sticky.

He is relieved that Dimitri didn’t happen upon him earlier in the night. But what makes him furious—and what makes his face flush disgustingly—is that he can’t bring himself to feel upset if Dimitri did.

  
  
  
  


By now, Felix has established that he is incapable of fixing his problem by himself. Despite his best efforts, his mind pesters him constantly about the shape of Dimitri's body. It is becoming unbearable.

However, he has been considering that perhaps... it’s not just a Dimitri thing. Perhaps it’s more of a general thing, which is an idea that makes Felix clench his fists, but is also one he is secretly hoping will be true, because it would mean that he doesn't have a thing for _Dimitri's_ chest, specifically. It might just be that he has a thing for chests in general.

Felix scowls. _Tits._ Pathetic. His downfall is not _tits,_ and he will prove it to himself or die trying.

He bursts into the gardens.

“Oi,” he barks. “Sylvain.”

Sylvain is bending to sniff at a rose. He turns at the sound of his name, grins when he sees Felix, and waves, ever cheerful. 

“What brings the Duke Fraldarius himself to the royal gardens?” he calls.

“I need a favour,” Felix says, curt. His voice betrays nothing, but Sylvain’s face falls anyway, quickly replaced by a frown.

He places the rose on the bench, and hurries to Felix. “Are you okay? What do you need?”

“Stand there,” Felix orders, gesturing to a point opposite him. Sylvain gives him a confused look, but slows down and does what he asks.

Felix steps forward, until he is staring directly at Sylvain's torso.

There is no doubt that his chest is broad, like Dimitri’s. The difference between him and Dimitri, however, is that Sylvain wears tunics specifically to accentuate his muscles. For example, the one he is wearing right now is black, and is made from a material specifically designed to hug every contour of his chest. Felix has seen servants sneak gazes behind them to stare at Sylvain, long after they’ve passed him in the corridor.

Sylvain’s arms are big, too. They aren’t as defined as Dimitri’s, but they’re still _big_. They are certainly big enough to fawn over, which Felix… is not doing.

Sylvain is muscly. Objectively attractive. But when he stares at him, Felix feels nothing. He doesn’t feel as wildly breathless as he does with Dimitri. More than that, he can actually stare at Sylvain for an extended amount of time and think about something else. And not combust on the spot.

Oh, no. Fuck. This isn’t just a tit thing. It’s a _Dimitri_ thing.

This dawning realisation leaves Felix horrified. Reeling, because his body has _betrayed_ him, in the worst way possible.

“Uh, Felix?” Sylvain says. There is a hint of uncharacteristic awkwardness to his voice. Felix blinks, and shakes his head. “Not that I’m not flattered, or anything, but…” 

“No,” Felix groans. He slaps a hand to his forehead. “I can’t believe it.”

Sylvain looks alarmed, now. “Fe...lix? Are you sure you’re okay?” His brow creases, in that familiar way when he is being genuinely serious. “Do you need me to get Mercedes?”

Mercedes. What would Mercedes do? She’d take one look at him and _giggle._

Felix’s face burns.

“I don’t _need_ anything,” Felix snaps. His hands have curled into fists at his sides. “I need—“ 

He stops himself, and takes a breath. Wills the redness in his cheeks to disappear. “Fine. I need your help,” he snaps again, before he raises a finger to point threateningly at Sylvain. “But you can’t tell anyone. Or I’ll kill you.”

Sylvain visibly relaxes at Felix’s threat. He’s grinning again, like the loon he is. “Oh, must be important,” he smiles. “Go on.”

He’s smiling. Sylvain is _smiling,_ and by the end of this, if he figures out what’s going on, he won’t just be smiling. He will never let Felix live this down.

Felix takes a deep breath. He wills his fists to unfurl, and stares off to the side. “When you look at Dimitri,” he begins, carefully, “what do you… notice, about him?”

“What do you mean?” Sylvain asks. His eyebrows are raised.

Felix grinds his teeth. 

“You know. His—“ Felix flaps his hands, frustrated. The motion is wild at first, and Sylvain stares at him with something like a strange mixture of pity and bewilderment, but Felix finally ends up making the shape of an inverted triangle with his hands. It should be… descriptive enough. “You know. That.”

Sylvain cocks his head. “His…?” he prompts. Still confused.

Felix makes the shape again, more insistently. Sylvain squints, and twists his mouth down in a bemused grimace. “Are you trying to… mime something?”

Felix drops his hands, and stamps his foot. “Stop toying with me! You know what I mean.”

“I really don’t,” Sylvain assures him, still bewildered. “What do you mean by—oh. _Oh._ You mean—”

Felix nods, vigorously. A look crosses Sylvain’s face, a very familiar look, right as his mouth stretches into a teasing grin. Widens like a _clown._

Felix scowls, and braces himself.

“Ah,” Sylvain is _cackling,_ now. Like a witch. Felix already regrets telling him. “Felix. _Felix._ Little Felix.” Sylvain claps a hand over his mouth to stifle his laughter, but his frame is still shaking, as if this is the funniest thing he has seen all week. “How crude! I didn’t know you had it in you!” 

Sylvain shakes, again. It takes all of Felix’s willpower not to throttle him there and then. 

“Is that why you were staring at him like a starving—”

Felix flushes crimson. He growls, but Sylvain, the _dog,_ ignores him entirely.

Sylvain is howling, now. _Howling._ “Oh Goddess. I can’t believe it. You and Dimitri? Is that why you’ve been watching him train every day? Because of his—” and here he stops howling and shaking, and composes himself just enough so that he can make an inverted triangle shape with his hands, too.

Except that he does it in a far more suggestive way than Felix does. Outlining far more contours than he had allowed himself to do.

Felix regrets even asking the clown for his help.

 _“Sylvain!”_ he hisses, but Sylvain is bent over, roaring with laughter. Ignoring him entirely.

“Felix!” he crows. His eyes are teary. _Teary._ “I can’t believe it! Do you really want to touch Dimitri’s chest so badly?” Felix hacks out a cough, but Sylvain barrels on, unperturbed. “You know, I’m sure you could just—I’m sure you could just _ask_ him—”

Felix unsheathes his sword.

  
  
  
  
  
  


Later, back at the training grounds, the dummy Felix is abusing nearly splits in half with the force of his next swing. There is straw poking out of its body, and its head lolls, close to dropping onto the floor entirely.

Felix exhales. Frustration thrums under his skin, almost tangible.

Over the years, Felix has learnt that something is only really _wrong_ with him when training fails to dampen the weight of his feelings, whatever they may be. This ruined dummy, then, sliced with none of his usual finesse, does nothing to lift his spirits—not when his mind stupidly fixates itself on nothing but _Dimitri, Dimitri, Dimitri._

Felix hates it. Hates that the sight of Dimitri pushes him into such weakness and vulnerability. He has been ducking away from Dimitri for the past few days, and Dimitri has been giving him quizzical stares whenever he leaves the room, but what else is he supposed to do? Felix can barely look at him without wanting to jump him. It’s fucking embarrassing.

Today should have been a blessing, because for once, there are no meetings today for him to sit through and watch Dimitri conduct with all his kingly disposition. Felix should be ecstatic that there is no more opportunity for him to embarrass himself. However, the thought of not dropping by Dimitri’s room in the evening, as he usually does, is… strange. 

But he can’t. He can’t drop by Dimitri’s room when he’s… there. Next to his desk. Or on his bed.

Felix grits his teeth, and strikes the dummy so hard that the arm falls to the floor, like a sack of flour.

“Felix!”

_Damnit._

The familiar voice rings clearly through the training grounds. Felix whips around, and sure enough, Dimitri is there, waving at him from the far balcony. 

“I haven’t seen you all day. May I join you?”

Felix prides himself on his eyesight. It is very good, and was indispensable in the war. When he was young, his tutors even suggested he focus on the bow as his primary weapon, because his eyes were so sharp. Prioritising one’s sharpest strengths, and all that. He had thrown a tantrum over it, of course, because why the hell would he learn to use a _bow_ over a sword.

Now, however, Felix wishes that he were blind.

It’s all Dimitri’s fault, because Dimitri is _standing_ there. Leaning against the balcony railing, and beaming at him while dressed in a billowy shirt, the sleeves cuffed at his elbows. His hands are covered with black hand wraps. His shirt is open and fluttering. Showing skin. Indecently. 

And he wants to join him. Where Felix will see his entire ensemble, open shirt and all, right in front of his face.

Felix swallows. 

“Fine,” he manages. He turns back to the dummy, even though it is a useless and armless mess.

Dimitri ducks out of sight, and descends the far stairs to the training room. He is still beaming when he reappears, and Felix has to fight the urge to avert his gaze.

This is a test. This is a test from Ailell, and there is _no way_ he will _fail._ Like a coward. Because of Dimitri’s body. Not again. 

“I think I will use this one today,” Dimitri muses, turning over a sword in his hand. Swords. Excellent. Not those large, calloused hands, hidden under the wraps. Very bad. “What do you think, Felix?”

Dimitri is staring at him, softly. Expectant. And Felix’s throat is _so_ dry.

“Go ahead,” he coughs. He refuses to watch as Dimitri wraps his fingers around the hilt, and pretends to stare at the wall instead.

His eyes drift, anyway. Trace the curve of Dimitri’s neck, traitorously and utterly _unfair._

“Really?” Dimitri asks. He sounds like he’s speaking through a bowl of water, because Felix is transfixed by how his shirt is billowing. Billowing and fluttering and his pecs are so _defined_ — “I was under the impression that you disliked this blade.”

“Hm,” Felix says, intelligently. He’s staring at the stretch of skin that the shirt opening leaves bare. There really is nothing to tie both ends together, and the thought of him trying to do it himself leaves him fumbling with his sword.

The shirt flutters. Felix grinds his teeth. _Damn_ whoever left the window open.

He rips his gaze away from the shirt, and forces himself to look at Dimitri’s sword, which—what the _hell._ Felix startles. 

“Why are you using _that?”_

“I’m only curious to see how it handles,” Dimitri says. “Sometimes even the older blades have their benefits.” 

Felix completely disagrees, but then Dimitri shifts, and his shirt reveals more of his tantalising skin, and Felix is suddenly distracted again. 

“Shall we begin?”

Felix nods, mutely. _Mutely._ Fuck Dimitri’s tits for making him speechless.

Fuck Dimitri’s tits. Hah.

“Watch yourself!”

Dimitri is charging him. Felix swears, narrowly missing his powerful swing as he darts to the side. He brings his sword up at the last minute in a weak parry, and curses when it shakes under the force of Dimitri’s terrifying strength. Dimitri rears back only when Felix ducks and swipes at him, and Felix uses the split second he is given to force his feet out of their sluggishness.

Soon enough, he falls into that effortless rhythm again; parrying, thrusting and swerving out of the way as Dimitri dances around him, his sword a glint of steel under the light, a relentless flurry of attacks raining hell upon Felix’s own blade.

It occurs to him that Dimitri has never called out while training. For veterans like them, there is never a need for cues. 

He called out this time, though. Because Felix couldn’t _move._

Felix grits his teeth. He parries another attack, and desperately tries not to notice how Dimitri’s shirt is starting to slide down one shoulder.

Focus. _Focus._

“Something on your mind, Felix?” Dimitri pants, deflecting a blow. The competitive glint has returned to his eye, making it flash in an almost predatory way. Almost primal, but not in the dangerous, bloodthirsty way he was during the war.

No. Now, the glint in his eye makes him look _alive._ Felix loves it, because it matches his own. 

He shakes his head. _Stop thinking about his eye._

“You seem—” Dimitri thrusts again, grunting in exertion, “—unusually distracted.”

“I’m _not,”_ Felix growls. He sidesteps, narrowly dodging another blow.

In the past minute, Dimitri’s shirt has slid down his shoulder to the point where it skews entirely to the left. The bare skin it reveals is littered with scars, but other than that, the muscle of his arm is relatively unblemished.

Felix remembers the other, shameful night, where the skin of Dimitri’s shoulders had been bruised, mottled purple and black from Felix’s own mouth. The marks had been lovely. Lovely, because they were _his,_ and secretly, Felix wouldn’t mind seeing Dimitri walk around with them hidden under his shirt—

The sword whacks Felix’s side, and sends him sprawling onto the floor.

“One to me,” Dimitri pants. He looms over Felix, grinning wildly. His chest is heaving, and he looks so _happy._ So exhilarated and alive. 

There is sweat pooling in the hollows of his collarbone, too. It glistens, tantalising and wet.

“Up for another, Felix?” Dimitri asks, once he catches his breath. He is beaming, shirt still halfway down his shoulder, and it is maddening. Felix wants to haul it up, but he also wants to yank it down and rip it off at the same time. The thought of doing both hurts his head.

“That was only a practice round,” Felix snaps. His face is still burning. “Come at me.”

Dimitri laughs. It is a small rumble at first, before he starts to chuckle louder, and then the sight of him with his fist over his mouth to stifle such sweet laughter makes Felix want to take the hand away.

Once he stops laughing—Felix determinedly ignores the displeasure he feels at this—Dimitri starts to hike his shirt back up his shoulders. This motion both pleases and angers Felix, because the shirt is obviously too loose to stay fixed there. It should be impossible to find a shirt loose enough to slip down Dimitri’s wide shoulders in the first place, but somehow his tailors managed it. Perhaps Felix would have been impressed with them, if his gut wasn’t twisting itself into a knot at the sight of it.

After his shirt is fixed, Dimitri produces a waterskin out from… somewhere. Felix has no idea where, because now Dimitri is tossing his head back to drink from it. The long line of his neck is left perfectly exposed, and Felix is too busy staring at the way his throat moves. At how his Adam’s apple bobs.

_Damn._

Then, Dimitri stops drinking. He shakes the waterskin, listening attentively to how the water sloshes around inside, before he pours the rest of it over his head.

Felix wants to _die._ He truly, sincerely wants to sink into the ground and let the earth swallow him whole, because _fuck_ Dimitri and his stupid big broad body.

Dimitri’s shirt is utterly soaked. Where before it was white and decently opaque, now it is obscenely sheer, and Felix can see _everything._ He watches, mouth parched, how the shirt clings to his skin, outlining the shape of his chest. How thick and muscled and _full_ it is. Felix could reach out a hand and press his palm against it through his shirt, could properly caress the skin there and catch the beads of water with his finger. Or he could touch his nipples. His nipples, which are… prominent, now.

Fuck. Felix can actually see them, dark against the whiteness of Dimitri’s shirt.

What the hell is he _doing?_

“Don’t worry, Felix,” Dimitri reassures him, utterly oblivious. He has no idea how he affects Felix—how his very presence makes Felix’s brain feel like it is sizzling in a pot. Dimitri probably thinks Felix is worried about his _propriety,_ or something equally ridiculous, even as Felix visibly wrestles with the urge to tear the shirt apart with his own hands. “I brought a change of clothes with me.”

Dimitri is smiling at him, sunny and beautiful. And he is nearly shirtless. Later, he _will_ be shirtless; maybe not in front of Felix, since Dimitri rarely changes in front of others, but Felix will have to carry around the knowledge that Dimitri will be shirtless in a room, somewhere. And his body will be wet.

Felix wants to throw down his sword and _pounce_ on him.

 _This is it,_ Felix thinks, dazed. Dimitri must be doing this on purpose. No sane man would walk into a training room wearing a shirt like _that_ and pour water all over himself, like some sort of—sex god. No one. Even _Dimitri_ isn’t this unaware. 

Fuck. _Fuck._ Is this a ploy? To make Felix weak? Or—is Dimitri _playing_ with him? Would Dimitri… play with him? Usually Felix would dismiss the thought easily, but… 

“Ungrh,” Felix says, cleverly. He shakes his head, and hisses, “What are you doing?”

Dimitri looks confused. _Innocent._ “I was thirsty?” he offers, and Felix wants to stab him.

 _Thirsty,_ he says. Fucking _thirsty._

His shirt is so wet. His hair is wet, too. But his _shirt._ And his chest. Felix doesn’t know what to think anymore, but he knows that it would be so easy to slide off Dimitri’s shirt and watch the fabric peel away from his damp skin.

Instead of taking it off, Felix charges. 

Dimitri’s block is effortless. He is grinning again, teeth bared and eye gleaming and he is _still_ dripping with water, even as he surges forward. The shirt is sticking to the curve of his pecs. It doesn’t slide down anymore, because it’s _sticking_ —

Felix blinks. He curses, loud, when Dimitri’s sword tears from the side and skims his skin. Dimitri laughs, then, a clear, exhilarated sound, before he twists on the spot. His thighs are beautiful.

No. No—not _again_.

Dimitri’s swipes at his left. It is a clean, sweeping hit, and Felix will never be able to block it in this state. His nerves feel like someone set them on fire, and his knees are weak. _Weak._

Losing is not an option. Felix sticks out a foot, just in time to trip Dimitri over and send him toppling forwards.

“What— _Felix!”_ Dimitri yells, as they both come crashing down. Felix has just enough time to feel smug that _yes, he’s not completely weak enough to lose a match yet,_ before they meet the ground.

The impact knocks the wind out of him. Felix barely muffles a yell as his hip collides with the floor, and winces as his hand ends up trapped awkwardly under his body. His head snaps back, but it meets something far gentler than hard ground.

Dimitri’s fingers, strong and calloused, are cradling the back of his head. They must have broken Felix’s fall.

With a jolt, Felix realises that Dimitri is on top of him. The firm lines of his body are pressed flush against Felix, and he can feel _everything._

He is heavy, so very heavy, as he crushes Felix into the ground. It’s a warm, solid pressure, and being encompassed by the width of him feels grounding. More than anything, it feels safe.

Dimitri’s chest is pressed up right against his. Felix can feel his heart pounding in an unsteady beat with his own. He could try to encircle Dimitri with his arms, but his chest is wet, and wide, and he is so strong, and so much larger than Felix, and Felix is _touching him—_

Shamefully, Felix feels himself go hard. Right when he’s trapped underneath Dimitri, too, because the world has it out for him.

“That was a dirty trick,” Dimitri scolds him, breath coming in harsh pants. His voice is low and deep in Felix’s ear. Felix shudders, and tries not to die again.

“There are no dirty tricks on the battlefield,” he gasps, batting at Dimitri’s side with a weak fist. “Get off me.”

Dimitri blinks. He takes stock of the position he is in, and finally, that wild glint in his eye fades away, replaced by a more sheepish look.

“Ah. I apologise, Felix,” Dimitri says, lifting himself up. He does it so slowly that the shirt hangs off him, sticking to Felix’s own. Dimitri’s pecs are so _close_. So squeezable. A pearl of water trickles between them, appealingly slow, and Felix has the sudden urge to taste it with his tongue. 

“I am rather heavy,” Dimitri adds.

Heavy. Yes, he is, and it feels like heaven on earth.

“Good,” Felix blurts out. He doesn’t have to think when he speaks, because Dimitri’s body, the agility and strength of it, is something he misses already. To have it pressing him down into a mattress would be nothing short of a dream—

Felix slaps a hand over his mouth. What is _wrong_ with him.

“Hm?” Dimitri is on his feet now. “What did you say?”

Felix keeps his hand clasped over his mouth, and speaks in the direction of the wall. “Nothing,” he barks, words muffled.

“Are you sure?” Dimitri presses. His voice is soft, now. Concerned. Felix refuses to look at him. “Forgive me for saying so, but… you are acting very oddly. Is something the matter?”

_“No!”_

Felix’s face is on fire again. Something _is_ wrong with him—both with his body and his mind—but he will dance naked on the table in front of all the castle staff before he tells Dimitri that he wants to strip him of his shirt. 

“All right, Felix. If you’re sure,” Dimitri says, slowly. There is a pause, before he gives a short, awkward laugh. “I had better change my clothes…” 

Dimitri sounds embarrassed. He picks at his shirt, tugging it this way and that until he finally manages to jerk it over his shoulders. The motion is hasty. Felix curses those nimble fingers as they make quick work of hiding that skin from the world again. 

Dimitri gives Felix that unsure, small smile of his. “I got a bit too excited, it seems.”

He did. Dimitri, for all of his indecency, had looked indescribably happy when they had sparred. All broad chest and broad arms and broad smiles, and the sight had been stunning.

Felix’s heart swells. It’s always full when Dimitri smiles at him. He has no idea how to fix it.

“I’m glad,” Felix manages. He closes his eyes, shifting to the side. Dimitri will go away soon, if he is curt enough.

Lucky him, he supposes, that his own tunic covers the tent in his pants.

“Is that so?” Dimitri quirks an eyebrow. His smile is warm. “You are full of surprises today, Felix. It almost worries me.” 

Felix huffs, strained. _Go away. Please go away._ “Ugh. If you’re going to be like that, then just go away.”

Dimitri laughs, again. Felix keeps his eyes screwed shut as the sound of ruffling clothing reaches his ears. He tries not to listen to it, but it is so _loud._ Surely Dimitri is only readjusting his shirt, but the sound of it is very hard to keep away from.

After an eternity, Dimitri leaves. Felix picks himself up, gingerly, and hobbles away to find a bucket of cold water.

  
  
  
  


“Hello?” A finger snaps in front of him, and Felix jerks in his seat. “Felix, you’re drooling.”

Dorothea is staring at him, face expectant. Sylvain is sitting next to her, staring at him too, although his grin is far more knowing. 

“I’m not,” Felix snaps, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Sylvain gags at that, making a horrified expression.

“Felix!” he complains. Felix ignores him, and turns back to Dorothea.

“I wasn’t _drooling,”_ he says, roughly. “I was just—”

He stops short, because the thrum of conversation around them has suddenly intensified. The reason for this becomes apparent when a figure strides into the dining hall, turning heads even before people have taken a proper look at him.

There is Dimitri, clad in sinful wine-red. He is walking alongside Annette, with his hair tied in a low ponytail at the nape of his neck. His riding gloves are starch-white and pristine, and he has a belt cinched around his waist. 

A belt. Tight around his waist. Accentuating how trim it is, how easy it would be to grasp with both hands and _pull_. It is so narrow in comparison to his shoulders. And he is _smiling._

There is no question. He is doing this on purpose. 

Felix makes a strangled sound, right at the back of his throat, before he leaps out of his seat and sprints for the door.

“Wait—Felix!” Dorothea calls. She huffs angrily, tossing her hair out of her face. “I can’t _believe_ him. He left before I could ask about the next performance!”

Felix’s plates still clatter from where he’d thrown them in his panic. Sylvain, however, is laughing hysterically. He doesn’t seem concerned at all.

Dorothea turns to him. “What’s wrong?”

“Don’t worry,” Sylvain says, shaking his head. There are tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. “He’s—you know—” here, he makes a vague gesture, “—Faerghus. You understand.”

 _Faerghus._ A one-word explanation, yet it tells Dorothea all she needs to know.

She picks up a fork, anger gone. Suddenly, the way Felix’s face had bloomed like a rose makes perfect sense.

  
  
  
  


That night, Felix dreams of fucking Dimitri between his thighs.

It isn’t a long dream, nor is it a particularly imaginative one. All he remembers clearly is the feeling of being wrapped around Dimitri’s large, sweat-soaked body as he pounds him into the mattress. 

Dimitri is wearing the wine-red shirt from that evening. There are some differences, however, between the Dimitri of this dream fantasy and the Dimitri in the real world. The first is that his belt is gone, which allows Felix to ruck the shirt up the muscled expanse of his back. 

The second is that Dimitri’s legs are completely bare. The creamy skin between his thighs is wet and slick, and Felix’s cock pushes easily through it, like sliding through butter.

Dimitri moans and tightens his thighs. The warm, wet pressure on Felix’s cock, in all directions, makes him stutter, heat pooling in his belly.

“Felix,” Dimitri groans. His hair glistens as he props himself up on his elbow. Beads of sweat fall on to the pillow, and there is a wetness at the corner of his mouth. “Stop _teasing_ —“

His groan gives way to a needier whine when Felix stretches his hand around, slides it under the shirt, and lightly flicks a nipple.

“Hm?” Felix murmurs. He uses the other hand to sweep Dimitri’s ponytail away, mouthing at the nape of his neck. Felix takes his time, gently grazing his teeth along the soft skin, before biting down roughly. Dimitri gasps, and tries to arch his back. “What did you say?”

“F—Felix,” Dimitri struggles, crying out when Felix gives a punishing thrust. He tightens again, as if in retaliation. Felix curses, and then takes his nipple between thumb and forefinger, rolling it gently until it stiffens. He brings the other hand around, too, until he’s cupping both of Dimitri’s tits, and—

This feeling is incredible. Holding both of them in his hands, splaying his fingers around and having such plush fullness to grip like a lifeline makes Felix groan, and rock forward. Dimitri moans when his cock grinds against his own, and the sound of skin slapping against skin has Felix shuddering.

He thrusts once more before taking both nipples between his fingers, fondling them until Dimitri’s cries out again, deep and enthusiastic and utterly _gone._

“Come on,” Felix pants into the shell of Dimitri’s ear. “Tell me what you want.”

Dimitri’s breath hitches as Felix’s lips brush his earlobe. His thighs tense, and Felix keens at the back of his throat before slipping out. His cock is weeping, flushed dark red from the tightness of Dimitri’s thighs, and Felix barely manages to flip Dimitri onto his back before he—

This is where he wakes up.

Felix comes to with a ragged gasp. His breathing is harsh, startlingly loud in comparison with the silent room, and his face feels hot.

He lies there for a solid minute, staring at the ceiling as his chest heaves, before he reaches a tentative hand under the covers.

He is hard. Painfully hard.

Felix drags a hand down his face. 

Again. _Again_ his mind had given him—images of Dimitri. Images that were lustful, filthy beyond measure.

Every night. This has been happening every single night for the past couple of days. Either he goes to bed and makes himself come to the thought of Dimitri wearing his _normal clothes_ (not even anything skimpy, but his _normal clothes),_ or he dreams about the same thing.

First it was Dimitri’s—chest. Just his chest. And now Felix’s problem has evolved, and encompasses Dimitri’s thighs _and_ his chest. Not to mention his waist, or his gloved hands. Or his strong, muscled back. 

Felix’s body has failed him. Once a paragon of strength and skill, cutting down foes without respite, yet now it decides to torture him with thoughts of his king. Obscene thoughts. Thoughts that make him want to scream.

Felix groans, and drops back into the sheets.

This is becoming too familiar. And it is also getting _ridiculous._

  
  
  
  


The next morning, there is a note attached to an envelope that’s been slid under his door.

_Dear Felix,_

_I understand if you do not wish to talk about your nightmares. Honestly, I do not particularly enjoy doing so, either. I hope you will at least take this, however. It is a soothing blend—the aroma clears my head in a way that astounds me even today—and though it is not perfect, it helps me considerably. I hope it will help you, too._

_Yours,_

_Dimitri_

Felix scowls, and turns the envelope over in his hand. Inside, there is a packet of tea leaves, which when he brings to his nose, he recognises immediately as Dimitri’s favourite blend.

Chamomile. Hah. This gift would be perfect for his _actual_ nightmares. For the recent, more mortifying ones, though, it will be absolutely useless.

Felix sets the envelope down on the dresser. Carefully, he sinks into his armchair and tips his head back. Closes his eyes.

Dimitri is so attentive. Felix has no idea why he’s up so early in the morning—the thought of Dimitri losing sleep aggravates him, even—but Dimitri looking out for him like this is… sweet. It makes him feel stupidly warm, all over.

Dimitri makes him feel warm, yet also hot. Angry, too, when he doesn’t take care of himself, but when he _does,_ Felix thinks there’s no better sight in the world.

Felix swears. Both in his head, and then aloud, before he puts his head in his hands.

Dimitri is making him feel things. Everywhere.

And he doesn’t know what to _do._

  
  
  
  


“You know,” Sylvain tells him, reclining in his chair with his feet propped up on the table, “you really could just _ask.”_

Felix grunts. He moves his pawn up the board, and snatches one of Sylvain’s rooks.

“I’m not joking,” Sylvain insists. He puts his feet on the ground, and leans forward. His face is oddly intent. “Your Dimitri thing. It’s not just about his—“ he makes that suggestive triangular shape again, and Felix scowls, “—is it?”

Felix grunts, again. He refuses to look at Sylvain’s stupidly smug face.

“Stop grunting at me,” Sylvain says. He lightly flicks Felix’s forehead, before his voice hushes to something softer. “I’m right, though, aren’t I?”

“What could you be right about,” Felix grits out.

“Oh, many things.” Sylvain waves a hand, airy. “For example, when a girl wants a kiss. There’s something I know a lot about.”

Felix rolls his eyes. He moves to get up and leave—what’s the point of playing Sylvain’s game if he won’t even play it properly?—but Sylvain drags him down again, without batting an eye. 

“Or, when Ingrid’s gone too long without her favourite food,” Sylvain continues. His grin is sly, now. Conniving. “She gets that look in her eyes. The crazed one. You know it.”

Felix does know it. He knows it very well, but he doesn’t see why it’s important to this conversation at all.

He opens his mouth to say so, and demand why Sylvain is trying to bore him, but—

“Or, when someone’s caught feelings.” 

Felix stiffens. Sylvain reclines in his seat like a cat, and eyes him with a look that is far too sharp for his liking.

 _Feelings._ Fucking— _feelings,_ his ass.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Felix bristles. 

Sylvain shrugs. Nonchalant. “Take a wild guess.”

“I’m not in _love_ with him.”

“That’s not what I said, is it?” 

Sylvain is grinning again. Like he’s spun a trap, and has wound Felix right into it. Felix feels his hackles rise. 

“Don’t put words in my mouth. I’m not in _love_ with Dimitri.” Felix snaps. Even saying the words out loud makes Felix’s stomach churn. It’s irksome, how Sylvain is hellbent on uncovering something that doesn’t exist.

“Really?” Sylvain challenges. He’s tipped his chin up so he can stare down at Felix. A considering look spreads across his face as he speaks his next words. They are slow, and carefully chosen. “So, what. You only want him for his body, then?”

The anger that rears its head is overwhelming. “Sylvain,” Felix hisses. His voice is dark. “Shut up.”

“See?” Sylvain is utterly unfazed. “You do care. You don’t only want him for his body. That’s something, isn’t it?”

“That doesn’t mean I’m— _in love_ with him,” Felix retorts. “Any friend would be disgusted by that.”

“Friends,” Sylvain echoes. His eyes are twinkling. “Would a friend look at him the way you do?”

With every word Sylvain says, the urge to punch him steadily increases. Felix’s face feels hot enough to fry eggs.

“That was _once,”_ he says, roughly. It was only because of Dimitri’s shirt, and the way his belt accentuated the dip of his waist. How was he supposed to know Sylvain would be dining with him when he saw it? “And I wasn’t—”

“When Dimitri’s eating,” Sylvain cuts in, smoothly, “you look at him like there’s nothing else worth your attention in the room.”

Fucking— 

“I do _not,”_ Felix sputters.

Sylvain grins. He makes a face; his annoying one, the one that makes Felix bristle the moment he sees it.

“To be honest, it’s also the way you look at your sword, so I could be wrong—“

Felix flings his bishop at Sylvain’s head. Unfortunately, it misses, but the sentiment is made clear when it smashes into a gnome’s stone belly.

Sylvain’s chortling at him again, and with no more lost pieces to spare, Felix resorts to seething at the ground. Sylvain is wrong. Felix does _not_ stare at Dimitri like that. He doesn’t stare at Dimitri at all.

… Fine. That last one is a lie that even Felix would have trouble denying. But he certainly doesn’t look at Dimitri like he—like he _hung the stars_ , or whatever poetic nonsense Sylvain likes to spout.

… Does he?

“I’m just—satisfied, that he’s eating,” Felix mutters. He scowls, and resists the urge to duck his head. “Why your thick head has to make it weird, I have no idea.”

“You’re satisfied when he eats?” Sylvain probes. Grinning, like a clown.

“His—eating.” Felix swallows. His eye twitches. “Dimitri eating food. Is good.”

So much for coherent sentences.

Sylvain sighs again, long-suffering. “Felix. No offence, but when he eats, you look at him like you want to jump on him. Do you really only think his eating habits are ‘good’, or are you trying to ignore how horny you are for him again—” 

This time, Felix throws his queen.

  
  
  


Thankfully, Sylvain is nowhere to be seen when Felix returns to the dining hall. Dimitri, however, is waiting for them at their usual spot. He waves when he sees Felix, smile tired yet warm, and the sight of it reminds Felix of how absolutely fucked he is.

Tonight, Felix forces himself to watch Dimitri properly. Not because of what Sylvain, that ingrate, said, but because… 

Dimitri looks thoughtful as he chews. His cheeks are slightly swollen, like a hamster’s, as he picks up forkful after forkful of food and brings it to his mouth. The cream coloured shirt he is wearing has puffed sleeves, but the front of it stretches shamelessly across the breadth of his chest. It takes a monumental effort on Felix’s part to _not_ salivate like a dog over the way his muscles flex under the fabric. 

Dimitri’s chest is distracting. Again. And, of course, Felix fails miserably when he tries not to stare at it. 

It’s stupid, how much that chest distracts him, because there are other aspects of Dimitri that are equally as striking. The sickle-shaped birthmark which curves under his left ear, for example. Or the way he cuts his food, left to right, and never in the other direction. His jaw, the way it slants handsomely, and the scent of his cologne, masculine and enticing. His smile—his _real_ smile, and the tiny dimple that appears only when his mouth tilts into it, close enough for Felix to reach out and touch. Or his laugh—the way it knocks Felix breathless every time he hears it.

And the way he eats, and fills out, all muscle and fat and… 

He is healthy. _So_ healthy, that it makes Felix ache.

“This is a nice omelette,” Dimitri muses, peering at the egg on his fork, and it is here when Felix realises, horrifyingly, that— _oh._ He doesn’t only want to bury his face in Dimitri’s chest. He wants to kiss him, first—hold him in his arms and stroke him tenderly, before he gives him all the pleasure he deserves, and more.

Felix imagines it. He imagines cradling Dimitri’s face in his palms. Imagines two bodies moving together in the dying light of the evening sun, their silhouettes melting into one shape on the bed.

“What do you think, Felix?”

Dimitri is gazing at Felix. His eye is soft, and suddenly, Felix can’t think.

He gets up.

“Goodbye,” he tells Dimitri. His voice wobbles, embarrassingly, and Dimitri’s face falls in alarm.

“Felix, where are you going?”

“The chickens,” Felix says. “I’m going to water them.” A pause. “Don’t follow me.”

He stumbles on his way out.

  
  
  


Felix knows Dimitri better than he knows himself, so he isn’t surprised in the slightest when Dimitri decides to follow him anyway.

At least he knocks, this time.

“Felix,” Dimitri says, solemn, as Felix cracks the door open. “You’re not alright, are you?”

Felix considers slamming the door in his face. He remembers how easily Dimitri pried it back the last time he tried, and scowls.

“Why are you here?” he snaps.

Dimitri shakes out his cloak, and lifts the edge of it to reveal two cups of steaming tea on a tray. With a sunny smile, he ignores Felix’s question entirely. “Would you join me?”

Tea. Dimitri is bringing him tea, at whatever the hell o’clock at night it is right now. When he should be asleep.

Felix glares at him. Dimitri shows no sign of backing down, smile stubborn in the way it always is. Finally, Felix gives a jerky nod.

Dimitri beams. He nudges into the room, tray held carefully in his hands, and takes each step at snail’s pace before he can set it down on Felix’s table. 

_He could’ve gotten a maid to do that,_ Felix thinks, miffed, before Dimitri settles in the opposite chair and shrugs off his cloak. 

Dimitri’s shirt bares his collarbones. The open window allows for the moonlight to fall across his skin, and _oh_ —he is beautiful like this, with starlight smattered across his features. Like some sort of spirit. Or something. Felix has no idea what words he could use to describe Dimitri, when none of them are strong enough.

He swallows. It is difficult to swallow quietly, when Dimitri is lounging in that chair, content as a cat. Warm and relaxed, with his collarbones on display.

Felix grits his teeth, and hurls himself into the opposite chair.

“Why are you here?” he repeats. A familiar sharpness colours his tone, but Dimitri pays it no mind. 

“I only wanted to have a cup of tea with you,” Dimitri says mildly, tilting his head to look at Felix when he speaks. His gaze is observant, piercing, and it pins Felix—in his own room, at that.

“Don’t give me that,” Felix scowls. “Out with it.”

Dimitri sighs. It is a quiet exhale—a puff of air, if Felix is being honest. 

“I’m worried about you, Felix,” he admits. He brings the teacup to his lips, and his shirt, Felix realises, is loose. “Lately, you seem so… distracted. So distant.” 

Dimitri is looking him in the eye. Felix tries very hard to meet the gaze, instead of simply staring straight at the line of his throat. 

“I know it is not my place, but… if there is anything I can do to help, please—just name it.” 

He looks at Felix so _earnestly._ And all Felix does is stare at his neck. His unblemished neck, which looks very soft under the moon.

Felix is close enough to touch that neck. Close enough to caress it, feel the warm skin bob under his fingers as Dimitri swallows—

“Nothing,” Felix grits out. “Nothing’s wrong with me. I’m fine.” Then, softer, because Dimitri looks subtly pained, he adds: “You worry too much.”

“At least have some tea with me, then,” Dimitri presses. He nudges the tray towards him, inviting.

Dimitri’s eye is on him, so Felix snatches the teacup. It’s chamomile again, even though Felix has a box of the stuff stashed away in his drawer. _At least it smells fine,_ he thinks as he gulps it down. 

The tea sloshes over the sides. It is steadily growing more difficult to do anything else but gulp it down, because Dimitri has _shifted._ The moonlight falls differently across his form, now, dappling his face. His birthmark looks almost silver in the cool light. 

His shirt is soft. So soft and so silky, that when Dimitri relaxes as he drinks, it slips down his skin.

Felix forces himself to look away. He counts to ten, and breathes out slowly.

The silence is painfully palpable. Charged, too, dizzyingly enough that Felix wants to take his sword and slice through it. Dimitri, for his part, is—he is— _fuck._

Dimitri pulls at his shirt, now. Twists it with gloved fingers so it stretches across his body, his face beautifully flushed.

Felix has no idea where to look. Dimitri’s neckline lowers with every tug of the cloth. The gloves he wears are tight, too, and Felix knows very well the strength of the hands underneath. His wrist bone peeks out from under the silk, strong yet delicate, and Felix wonders, dazed, why the _hell_ his gloves make his hand look—

“Your room is very hot, Felix,” Dimitri says. It comes out as a little pant.

His room isn't even _hot._ It’s fucking freezing, actually, because the window is open, and Felix didn’t bother to light the fireplace. Dimitri is the only one in the room who looks warm. And hot.

The cup is burning in Felix’s hand, but he downs the tea anyway. It dribbles out of his mouth, and Felix has to suppress a choke. When Dimitri had done this, at the training grounds—

Dimitri, when he had done this, had been doing it on purpose. _On purpose._ He is doing the same now. Felix is sure of it, because when Dimitri steals a quick glance at him, lashes lowered, and starts to untie one of the laces on his shirt, Felix nearly breaks the armrest.

“What are you doing?” His voice is strangled.

“I should have worn something lighter,” Dimitri admits, mostly to himself, as he fiddles with his shirt. And he has the nerve to sound _unbothered._ “My apologies, Felix. I came here to provide you with company, yet, here I am, drawing all the attention.”

 _He is. He really is,_ Felix thinks, overwhelmed, as Dimitri fans himself with one hand. His face is still flushed. Felix has seen that face in his dreams, twisted in pleasure, and now—Dimitri is—what is he _doing?_

Later, after all this is said and done, Felix will remember the moment Dimitri untied that second lace as the moment he snapped.

“You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you?” The words tumble out before his brain can catch up, and he finds himself on his feet. His voice is more of a growl; low, in a way he has never heard from himself before.

Dimitri looks up, startled. 

“What?” he asks. His fingers are still at his collar. Felix laughs, harsh and rough, as he stalks over and curls a fist into Dimitri’s shirt.

“This!” he barks. He looms over Dimitri, so close to falling on top of him, and Dimitri’s gaze is lidded as he stares up at Felix through his lashes. Sultry, and infuriatingly attractive. “All your—shirts, and your drinking, and—the turtleneck. The fucking turtleneck!”

Felix is aware, somewhere in his mind, that he is making no sense. He snarls, anyway, as Dimitri’s hands come up to flutter about his clenched fists.

“Felix,” Dimitri says, bewildered. His legs are open. Wide open. Inviting. “I have no idea what you’re talking about—”

Dimitri cuts off abruptly, words tangling together as Felix straddles his lap. Felix’s mind whirrs, wiped completely blank, with only the bare expanse of skin in front of him—so unmarked and fresh—guiding his feverish movements.

“Days,” Felix says. His voice is hoarse. “You made me watch you for _days_. Days on end.”

Dimitri still looks worried, but now, his cheeks bloom a pretty red. “Felix? I—are you—”

… He still doesn’t get it. Felix wants to scream, because he has climbed Dimitri like a tree _,_ and Dimitri _still_ doesn’t understand.

Instead, he takes Dimitri’s face in his hands. He traces the silvery birthmark with his finger, and watches, hungrily, as Dimitri shudders under his touch. As his lips part, ever so slightly, and as his breath starts to come quicker.

“You drive me mad,” Felix tells Dimitri, furious, before he kisses him.

Dimitri’s lips are soft and smooth, and plumper than they look—even under the light of the moon. They taste like chamomile, but also faintly like the wine he keeps in his study, the one that he shares with Felix when they work into the early hours, and for all the time Felix has spent cursing his incessant need to kiss Dimitri silly when he walks around with his chest on display, the taste of Dimitri’s sweetness on his tongue more than makes up for it.

Dimitri makes a muffled sound, right at the back of his throat. Felix shifts on his lap, and sends a fervent prayer to the Goddess he doesn’t even believe in to thank her for making Dimitri’s thighs so _big_. There’s so much of them, and they fit around Felix’s frame perfectly, and of course it would be _Dimitri_ making him religious, of all things. Of fucking course.

 _Fuck_ Dimitri for being so big and beautiful. Felix pulls away, impatient, and reaches a hand down to part those thighs a little wider, so he can press closer to that chest.

It is only then, when he pulls away and really _looks_ at how still Dimitri is, and at the way his lips are parted in the vacant way like a statue’s would be, that Felix stops pawing at him. 

Dimitri looks stricken. Terrified. The headiness clouding Felix’s mind dissipates, and he pulls away like he is being burnt.

 _Idiot._ Felix is such a fucking _idiot._

“Fuck,” Felix gasps. He grips the armrest—an impossible feat, given that he’s leaning as far away from Dimitri as possible while trying not to fall—and struggles to haul himself off. He is in Dimitri’s lap. How the fuck did he not realise that he was squirming on his lap, on the broadness of his thighs, even though Dimitri has never—has never asked, nor _wanted_ _—_ “Shit—sorry, just—”

 _Forget this ever happened,_ his mind supplies. Felix pants in frustration. Why the fuck did he think this was a good idea—

Suddenly, he is being pulled down again. The hands gripping his thighs are strong, raw with power, and Felix squawks, until he finally _looks._

He stops struggling, then, because the sight makes his breath catch.

Dimitri’s eye is blown wide. There is a blush riding high on his cheeks, and his chest is heaving. He looks—he looks—

“Felix,” Dimitri breathes. His voice sounds—starstruck. Full of awe, and hearing it this low and this close is—

This is too much. Far too much. 

“Let me _go,”_ Felix snaps, even as his voice wobbles, high and panicked. He tries to wrench himself away, but Dimitri’s hands are powerful, and he pins Felix down without breaking a sweat.

_Fuck._

“Felix,” Dimitri says, more firmly. Hearing his name in that firm, authoritative tone somehow makes Felix go limp immediately. 

He is still on Dimitri’s lap, but he can’t move. Dimitri’s chest is heaving. He is still holding him in place, secure on his lap, and Felix can’t _move._

His head swims. He can’t decide if he wants to move or not.

“Do you—” Dimitri starts, pausing. He licks his lips, tongue darting out in a flash, and Felix notices, with increasing fervour, that his lips are glistening. They are tantalising, and so wet. “—want this?”

Their breaths mingle as Dimitri speaks. It blows hot on Felix’s mouth. Erratic, too, like Dimitri is struggling to compose himself, and for one, damning moment, Felix has the urge to say no. To leave, and forget this ever happened.

That idiotic notion slips away when Dimitri speaks again. He is quieter, now. Almost unbelieving.

“Want—me?”

Fuck. What the hell is Felix supposed to say to that, except the truth?

“You don’t understand,” Felix says, voice low. Tentatively, he leans forward, until his forehead is resting against Dimitri’s own. Dimitri doesn’t pull away, so Felix steadies himself and stays there. “I’ve wanted this—you— _fuck_. For so long.”

Dimitri’s eyelids flutter. His breath stutters, too, and in this moment he looks… achingly tender. The openness of his vulnerability makes Felix’s heart pang, and the stillness between them feels simultaneously like a chasm and no space at all.

“Oh,” Dimitri manages, barely a whisper. “Oh, Felix. I’m so glad.” He places a hand on Felix’s cheek, cupping it softly, as if Felix is a fragile thing. “Then, can we…?“

Felix scoffs. The sound is warbly, even though he means it as everything but. Dimitri laughs—a faint, breathless thing—when he hears it. 

Slowly, Felix closes his eyes. He evens his breathing, and focuses instead on the burning spots where Dimitri touches him, leaving him hot and needy. The softness of Dimitri’s glove on his skin. Dimitri’s forehead on his own, his nose brushing Felix’s own. Dimitri’s other hand, then, how it winds around his body, buries itself in his hair, and finally, _finally,_ crushes Felix to his chest.

This kiss is better. It is softer, at first, and Dimitri is far too hesitant. Knowing Dimitri, he is afraid of hurting him. As if he could hurt Felix with a _kiss._ He isn’t so weak. 

The kiss stays chaste until Felix grows impatient. With some coaxing, Dimitri finally relaxes enough to part his mouth, and—oh. _Oh_. This is—fuck. They move so easily against each other, and Dimitri’s mouth is warm and wet and inviting, and the little gasps he makes when Felix swipes his bottom lip with his tongue are fucking filthy, and—well. Felix would be embarrassed at how wanton he sounds, if he wasn’t currently in Dimitri’s lap, kissing him senseless. 

By the time they part for air, Felix is panting. Dimitri chases his mouth, insistent, and Felix keens when Dimitri catches his tongue again, and when the hand at his cheek slips away and returns to skim along his hip, and when Dimitri rumbles—a deep, pleased sound that resonates in his chest and makes Felix want to suck a bruise into his neck, just so he can hear that sound again, right in his ear.

It’s hot. So hot. Dimitri is under him, mouth parted and lips slick, and Felix wants more of him. _All_ of him.

“Wait,” Felix pants. He draws away from Dimitri’s eager mouth, and watches as a flash of disappointment crosses Dimitri’s face. When Felix tugs his shirt over his head, however, the disappointment vanishes so quickly it is almost comical.

Felix was already hot when Dimitri’s hands were on him, but the way Dimitri’s gaze darkens now, as it roves over Felix’s body, sets his skin alight.

“Yours, too,” Felix finally manages. He leans forward, and takes the laces of Dimitri’s tunic between his fingers.

“Felix?”

“Shh.”

It’s funny how Felix’s fingers become surprisingly dexterous when he goes to undo the laces of Dimitri’s shirt, but in his defence, he has a good excuse. He’s been waiting for far too long to peel the thing off with his own hands, and if his fingers fail him now, Felix isn’t above using his damn teeth to tear the laces off.

Of course, Felix’s fingers catch in the strings anyway. He swears angrily as the shirt tightens, _again._ Dimitri only laughs.

“Get this _off,”_ Felix growls.

“Felix, wait,” Dimitri says. “Shall we—” he licks his lips, and Felix has half a mind to let go of his shirt and kiss him breathless all over again “—take this to the bed?”

Oh. _Oh._ The bed. _His_ bed. Fuck.

Felix doesn’t feel himself nodding. All he knows is that he does, frenzied, and then Dimitri grips him under the thighs and lifts him into the air. 

Oh, _fuck._ Dimitri is carrying him to his gigantic bed, and all Felix can do is wind his arms around his neck, and—forgive him for sounding like a horny virgin, but this is _hot._

Dimitri probably means to lay Felix down as soon as they get to the bed, but Felix twists in his arms, and then they’re kissing again. It’s sloppy and wet and not at all coordinated, and Dimitri shifts until he is holding him in one strong arm only. The other strokes Felix’s back, until Felix regains his senses enough to push Dimitri down onto the sheets. Dimitri ends up splayed out under him, and Felix wastes no time in getting his hands on those _fucking laces._

Fuck it. Felix cannot bring himself to give a single shit anymore. With a hiss, he tugs at the strings until they’ve been wrenched out of their eyelets. Something tears, probably, but it doesn’t matter.

“Careful,” Dimitri gasps.

“I don’t _care,”_ Felix snarls. He wants that shirt _off._

Dimitri’s eye widens a fraction, and Felix softens. He presses a quick kiss to the nearest expanse of skin he can find—right on Dimitri’s jaw—before he rucks a hand under his tunic and finally, _finally,_ slides it off.

The motion of the fabric sliding over the contours of Dimitri’s body is enough to make Felix groan, but this new, very real sight of Dimitri under him, shirtless and beautiful and sweetly flushed in _his_ sheets… 

Felix is not a religious man, not by any stretch of imagination, but if there was someone he would drop to his knees for and mutter praises of adoration to, it would be to this man, and no other.

Fuck. His chest is _so_ big. Dimitri sighs, a soft, breathy sound, and Felix wants to personally thank whoever made him this big, because by the looks of it, he won’t even be able to hold a pec in each hand, even if he splays out his fingers. Dimitri’s chest is defined, too. The curves of fat only makes him bigger, and the softness sanding down the juts of his hips and filling out the planes of his stomach is fucking delightful. Felix wants to hear Dimitri writhe as he gets his mouth on that softness and sucks a memory of his adoration into his skin, because right now he is speechless. And Felix is never _speechless._

Well. Today, he has learned that Dimitri is able to make him speechless.

Felix can’t even decide whether he wants to paw at his tits or wrap his hands around his narrow waist. Then again, the thought of starting at his tits, slowly feeling him down as broken sounds escape Dimitri’s mouth until Felix’s hands grip snugly at his waist and dig into the flesh there, is nothing short of intoxicating.

Felix is spoiled. Dimitri is laid out before him like a platter, pliant and wanting, and he is _so_ fucking spoiled.

“Felix…” Dimitri breathes. His voice is so wrecked, and Felix feels his heart swell. _This man._ “I...”

He breaks off, and simply gazes at Felix. His mouth is still parted, gaze still heady, and he even looks a bit sombre, now. He is probably overwhelmed. Felix understands it perfectly.

“Relax,” Felix murmurs. He leans forward, and kisses Dimitri slowly. Just a gentle press of mouths, at first, until Dimitri goes utterly pliant beneath him. Felix slowly coaxes him open with his tongue, shuddering as Dimitri meets him halfway, and once again as his large, gloved hands grab his ass. Felix moans at that, wanton and stupid with desire, and slips a hand between their bodies so he can finally get a feel of his chest—

Suddenly, Dimitri bucks underneath him. Felix makes an aborted, indignant sound, right before a hard head collides into his skull.

“What the _fuck!”_ Felix yelps as he collapses backwards. Everything spins. His forehead feels like it was thrown fifty yards.

“Sorry!” Dimitri cries. He has propped himself up on his elbows, and his face is frantic. Slowly, Felix crawls back to him, although both his head and his pride are still smarting. “I am so sorry. You just startled me.” Dimitri’s mouth twists down into a guilty, apologetic frown. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Felix mutters as the spots in his vision subside. This is just a minor setback. His head doesn’t matter, in the large scope of things, the latter of which includes the higher aim of getting his hands on Dimitri’s chest. “Do you want to keep going?”

Dimitri nods. He still looks guilty. Felix wishes he could wipe that expression away, and replace it with the lustful one that was there moments ago. “Please, keep going,” Dimitri says, voice shaky.

Felix’s head pounds, even as he lowers himself on top of Dimitri again. Now, though, kissing him is suddenly awkward and stilted. Dimitri is stiff as a board, and Felix huffs a noise of frustration, even as he lets his hand wander half-heartedly to Dimitri’s chest. This time, he only manages to brush his fingers against a nipple before Dimitri makes a pained noise, and Felix is already retracting them as if he’s been burned.

Quickly, Felix pulls away. He scowls as he rocks back on his heels, annoyed. Above all, he just feels _embarrassed,_ but Dimitri isn’t even looking at him. Instead, he is staring off to the side, the set of his jaw tense. 

… Something is wrong.

“What’s the matter?” Felix asks, between gritted teeth. He sweeps the hair out of his eyes, only to find that Dimitri is looking resigned, now, too. “Do you—not like this?”

He thought they were on the same page, with how enthusiastically Dimitri had responded to him. Obviously, he’s missed something.

“What? No!” His last remark, at least, gets a reaction. Dimitri props himself up on his elbows again, mouth downturned. Felix only stares back. “Of course I do, Felix, I—” 

He stops abruptly, and sighs again. Then, Dimitri flops back onto his pillow, and casts his gaze to the ceiling. Felix bristles when he realises that Dimitri has no intention of looking at him any time soon.

Fuck. Felix thought Dimitri felt—the same, towards him. He thought Dimitri had wanted him as equally as he had wanted Dimitri. If this is just Dimitri… _pitying_ him, then… 

Felix feels his fists ball up at his sides. His face flushes hot, ripe with sudden anger, but when he opens his mouth, Dimitri beats him to it.

“Goddess, look at me. I’m ruining everything, aren’t I?”

In the silence that follows Dimitri’s words, Felix feels himself deflate. Dimitri’s face is still tilted to the side, but his mouth is pursed. His voice was even, too, without any of the lilt accompanying his usual questions. As if this—Dimitri being the one to ‘ruin everything’, in his own words—is something to be expected.

Slowly, Felix relaxes his fists.

“Not necessarily,” he says. There is still some bite to his voice, but the anger has disappeared, mostly. “Just tell me what’s wrong with you.”

Dimitri winces. Felix watches as he grabs the sheets, and tucks it over and around himself, covering every inch of visible skin. It feels almost like he is staring at a patient in the infirmary. Felix frowns.

Dimitri only starts to speak once he is covered entirely. “I am nervous,” he admits, in a voice far smaller than Felix has come to expect from him. After this admission, he immediately looks away again. Ashamed. 

… Huh.

“Do you want to—go slower?” Felix asks, haltingly. He hadn’t even considered the possibility that they were going too fast. The kissing was—fine, it was a bit eager, but—he had assumed Dimitri was okay with the pace.

Ugh. Maybe he went about this wrong. Dimitri has always been much shyer about his body. It only makes sense.

Suddenly, Felix feels like a fool.

“It’s not that,” Dimitri mutters. He looks at Felix, eye clouded. “I just—”

Dimitri stops, again. He throws his arm over to shield his face, and says, quietly, “Forgive me, Felix. This is difficult to say.”

Dimitri is being so… hesitant. Felix has no idea what to say. They were doing so well, but now his head is pounding, and he only feels cold.

But this is Dimitri. Felix doesn’t bother with the majority of people, who like to waste his time, but… this is _Dimitri._ There hasn’t been a time in his life where he hasn’t cared about him.

So Felix shrugs, and stays right where he is. He settles his thighs around Dimitri’s waist, even though it feels odd to be in such an intimate position for such awkward talk. “I’ve got all night.”

Dimitri sighs, again. It sounds pained, almost, and it is enough to make Felix’s heart twist.

He shifts. Steels himself. Then:

“I just—find it difficult to believe,” Dimitri begins, slowly, hesitant, and with his arm still covering his face, “that you would—want me. In this way.”

Dimitri’s face is turned to the side. Felix lets his admission sink in, and feels his blood boil in response.

“You think I’m lying to you,” he says, flatly.

The words have barely left his mouth before Dimitri is turning to him again. He is trying to sit up, now, eye wide. Panic overtakes his features as he takes in Felix’s furious face.

“No!” Dimitri nearly shouts. “No, Felix. I would never.”

“Then _what?_ ” Felix snarls. The mood is sour, now, and the walls seem closer than they were. All Felix wants is to get _out._

He tries to do exactly that, legs jerking as he attempts to swing himself off the bed, but Dimitri catches his hand first.

“Wait. I can explain.”

Felix struggles, but Dimitri’s grip, the weighted emotion in the purse of his lips, stops him. He tries to glare at Dimitri, too, but it is weak. Useless.

Dimitri slumps. “I meant exactly what I said. You said you— _wanted_ me, Felix, but I really have no idea why you would.”

His voice cracks on the last word. The sound is jagged, tearing through Felix's anger like an icy blade.

“What do you mean?” Felix grits out. He has no idea where this is going, but Dimitri telling him he has no idea why Felix would want him is—stupid. Stupid, and it can't possibly be real.

Unless… 

Dimitri closes his eye. “Must I say it?” he asks, reluctant. Felix stays silent.

Eventually, Dimitri sighs, and turns to face Felix. He places his lands in his lap, wringing them with a twisted grimace. Slowly, he begins to speak. 

“I am trying my hardest to carve a future for myself where I can atone for my sins. One where I am not shackled to the wishes of the dead, but where I give myself willingly to the living. You already know this.” Dimitri tries a warbly smile, but it only looks unbearably tired. “I—well. I have never needed a particularly—attractive body to do that.”

Felix narrows his eyes. Dimitri must misinterpret the gesture, because he hurries on, the words spilling out like he’s broken a dam.

“Which is absolutely fine, of course. I suppose I am just—surprised, and apprehensive, that you, of all people, would want me like this.”

… What the _hell._

“What?” Felix snaps. Dimitri winces at his volume, but Felix is in no mood to soften himself now. “What do you mean, ‘ _not attractive’?”_

Dimitri grimaces, and gestures down the length of his body. As if that alone is enough to support whatever bullshit he’s spouting.

“And what do you mean, _‘me of all people’_?”

Felix is shaking. He shakes, rage bubbling, as Dimitri looks him in the eye and begins to tear himself to pieces with his own tongue.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Dimitri says, softly. He brushes the back of his fingers against Felix’s cheek. His touch is fleeting, now—as if he believes that this moment won’t last. “You could have anyone you wanted, Felix. So I must ask: why this?” His voice is raw. “Why me?”

Desperately, Felix searches Dimitri’s face for any sign that he is pulling a stupid joke, but there is nothing. And for the second time tonight, he has no idea what to say.

It is unbelievable. There is no way in hell that Dimitri just referred to himself as ‘unattractive’. Anyone with eyes could see that he is objectively handsome—he’s received proposals from all four corners of the _continent,_ for fuck’s sake. The stacks of letters that Felix has to burn every month leave his floor covered in ash, and that alone should say enough.

And yet, Dimitri still refers to his body like it is a slab of meat. He refuses to look at it even now, keeping his eye trained on Felix’s face, and Felix realises, suddenly, that Dimitri has not once taken his gaze off him for the duration of the night. Felix had passed it off as pure desire, but… clearly, there is something else, there.

He hates that there might be something else. It makes Felix’s skin crawl, because the only thing Dimitri was supposed to feel tonight was _wanted,_ and to want in return.

Felix wracks his mind, but he finds nothing to explain why Dimitri dislikes himself so much. He wore that turtleneck, for one, which showed off the length and breadth of his arms as he trained in the yard. He had worn those open shirts, too, the ones that left Felix dizzy and stupid.

He knows that Dimitri has always felt more comfortable with larger, looser jackets. He knows that Dimitri prefers more modest clothing, and never changes entirely shirtless, but his shirts have always been unapologetically _tight._ They hug the alluring shape of his chest in a way that makes even the most prudish of men look twice. And Felix cannot fathom why he is being so self-conscious, when he is definitely the most beautiful man walking the castle halls.

A memory surfaces, then, as Felix struggles. Quiet, like a drop of water. It is a shameful one, and Felix has not thought about it for a long time. 

A year into Dimitri’s reign, Felix had slipped up. He had called Dimitri a beast in a fit of anger, days after Dimitri had asked him, with great difficulty, to stop. Dimitri had accepted Felix’s apology with the same calm smile as always, but Felix remembers how he had winced. How he had tugged at his shirt afterwards, pulling it down, like he wanted to hide as much of himself as he possibly could.

At the time, Felix had thought Dimitri was just nervous. Upset, even, which was unsurprising. Now, in the dimness of the night, with Dimitri’s face twisted in that exact expression, he realises that the emotion there had been _resignation._

Slowly, it occurs to him that Dimitri wearing clothes that appeal to Felix does not mean that he sees himself in the same light. The realisation is blinding.

“You…” Felix begins. His voice is quiet, devoid of anything. “... really think you look disgusting.”

Dimitri shakes his head. Still resigned. Still so _accepting._ “Not exactly—” he starts, even as his smile _lies._

The anger returns, as violent and tumultuous as ever. Dimitri is fucking _blind._

“Why?” Felix demands.

Dimitri tenses. “Felix,” he says, tightly. “I have no desire to discuss it.”

“No. We _are_ discussing this.” Felix’s head is still reeling. He has no idea if this is the right thing to say, but fuck it all. Dimitri thinks—he thinks he is— _“Why?”_

“Forget it,” Dimitri mutters. He places his hands on Felix’s waist, and gently tries to remove him from his lap. Felix refuses to budge. “Felix. I am sorry for bothering you with all this. I should return to my chambers, now.”

Dimitri wants to return to his chambers, believing he is ugly. Believing that Felix has never truly _wanted_ him. 

Felix wants to stab someone.

 _“No.”_ Felix bares his teeth. His voice is incredulous. “You think you’re unattractive. You _really_ think you’re unattractive.”

Dimitri is gritting his teeth. “If that is what you wish to hear, then yes,” he bites out. His mouth is pressed in a thin line. “Felix. Please.”

Felix barks out a laugh. It almost sounds hysterical. “What about you is unattractive?” he demands, voice harsh. “Tell me, Dimitri. _What?”_

Dimitri balks. For a moment, he is so surprised that he stops trying to push Felix away. 

“You really want me to answer that,” he says, slowly.

“Yes.”

Felix stares him down. He doesn’t trust himself to speak again, not when the same anger is still there, simmering. Threatening to boil over and ruin everything all over again.

Instead, he waits.

Dimitri closes his eye. He breathes, ragged. The silence before he begins to speak is heavy, stretching into the darkness, like the whole of their shared, scarred history.

“My scars,” he admits, first. “Apart from the ones on my back, my scars are all unsightly. Hideous. They are deformations, and no matter how much salve I apply, they refuse to disappear. Although that is to be expected, honestly.” Dimitri is quiet and monotonous, speaking as if he is reciting a list. Every word he says strikes a dent somewhere in Felix’s chest. “I have also been getting… pudgier. The extra fat makes me slow—slower than I’ve ever been in my life, yet I know that if I try to combat this, I will only slip into old bad habits again.”

He’s picking up momentum now, breathless and honest and so, _so_ sad. “I am getting bigger, Felix. With every day that passes, I feel as I’ve blinked, and my shape has changed, somehow. My body feels detached at times, as if I am merely an outsider watching how it moves. And when that happens, it scares me. It scares me to lose control.” 

Dimitri pauses. His eye, desperate and so vulnerable it makes Felix ache, slides off to the side. “I should stop here, otherwise I fear I will only bore you.”

The implication that there is more that Dimitri hates about himself hurts. Dimitri is—Dimitri deserves everything. Not this.

“Right,” Felix exhales. “Right.”

There is so much to say. So much to rebut and tear down and pick back up again, but Felix is still reeling.

“I apologise for lashing out at you,” Dimitri murmurs. “And for spoiling the mood. I know it must be disappointing.”

“Stop that,” Felix says, tiredly. “Stop apologising.”

Dimitri gazes at him, expression unreadable. Felix stares at the space next to his head.

It’s true, then. Dimitri seriously thinks he is undesirable. He really, _honestly_ thinks this, because there is nothing in that expression that shows he is lying. 

Felix feels stupid for not realising before. It seems so obvious in retrospect. Dimitri has always kept his hands covered, and never knows how to reply to a compliment. He often tries to deflect them, but Felix had always drawn it down to him simply being _nice._

How many times has Dimitri done this? Felt unworthy of love, put on a façade of cheerfulness while Felix shrugged off the obvious signs? 

Dimitri had thought that no one had wanted him. He still believes that no one does, even though Felix pawed at him like a man starving just moments ago.

Fuck.

“Listen,” Felix starts. He coughs. “You’re not… ugly.”

Dimitri gives a small smile. It doesn’t reach his eye. “Felix,” he says, gently, “there is no need to try and make me feel better about myself. I appreciate it, really, but—”

“Shut up,” Felix snaps. “That’s not what I’m trying to do.” He shifts, and struggles to catch Dimitri’s gaze, even though the blue of it is as striking as ever. “What I’m trying to say is—look. You’re not unattractive.” 

Felix exhales. Curses inwardly when the words don’t come as easily as they should. “I don’t know where you’ve been getting these ideas, but—they’re stupid. You’re not ugly. Far from it.”

“... I see.”

The line of Dimitri’s mouth smiles like it is being manipulated by strings. Felix pulls at his own hair, vexed. _“Listen,”_ he says, fiercer, and grabs Dimitri’s arms. 

He pauses. Dimitri has gone utterly still underneath him. This lull, this barrier between them that Felix is trying to breach is one that he’s determined to conquer, but… with every word Dimitri utters, it seems as if a weight attaches itself to his ankle and drags him down, miles and miles away from Felix until he won’t be able to reach him anymore.

Felix swallows. This is _Dimitri._ Spitting and snarling and walking away would be the easier option, but—this is Dimitri. 

“I’m—not the best with words,” Felix begins, stiffly. “As you can see.” He scowls. “But—I can— _try_ to tell you what I really think. About you.”

Dimitri only sighs. He looks exhausted. “Felix—”

Felix silences him with a glare. “Just listen,” he snaps. 

Dimitri stares, again. For a moment, Felix wonders if he will have to silence him by force.

Finally, he nods. Felix nearly slumps over in relief. The nod is a small gesture, but this—Dimitri agreeing to listen—is a _start._

Dimitri is waiting under him, patient, if a bit reluctant. Felix takes him in, the entire shape of him. The shape that Felix is only now beginning to understand must have been a source of pain for him, all this time.

He has no idea how to start convincing Dimitri. But he has to start somewhere.

Felix stretches out a hand, and touches blonde hair. “Your... hair. It’s getting thicker.”

Fucking hell—he sounds so _awkward._ ‘His hair is getting thicker.’ Is Dimitri even insecure about his hair? 

Dimitri winces, and Felix curses himself. Of course his mind jumped to Dimitri’s _hair_ , and how bright it is. And how nice it feels to finally run his hands through it. Dimitri probably thinks he is losing his mind.

Felix grits his teeth.

“My hair is the same as always,” Dimitri says, bemused. “It has far more split ends, perhaps, but—”

“Dimitri,” Felix interjects. His voice is sharp as he scrabbles for an excuse, and Dimitri’s mouth shuts instantly. “Stop finding more faults to pick apart. I’m trying to tell you what I really think about you, so just listen.”

Dimitri swallows. 

“Okay, Felix.” His voice is a quiet mutter, now. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologise,” Felix says automatically. He glances at Dimitri’s face, at how it is angled away from him again. He recognises that beaten expression far quicker than he would like, and hurries on. “Don’t get the wrong idea! It’s not hard because I don’t know what to say. I just—there’s a lot. And I don’t—fuck.” 

Felix drags a hand down his face. Then, quietly: “I don’t know how to say it.” 

And he doesn’t want to mess this up.

Dimitri blinks at him. “Oh,” he breathes.

Felix swallows around the lump in his throat, and moves on. 

“Anyway. Your hair is nice.” His voice is croaky, and embarrassing, but Dimitri quivers, now. Felix curls his fingers in his hair and gently scratches there, before he presses his hand to Dimitri’s cheek. “So are your eyes.” 

Felix brushes a finger over the skin under his good eye. Dimitri’s dark circles are still there—they never faded, not really, although they are less pronounced than they used to be. They are but one of the repercussions that come with running a kingdom, but Felix hates what they represent.

Felix shifts until he’s thumbing under the strap of the eyepatch. “Can I…?”

Dimitri opens his eye as soon as he asks. It is still as lovely as ever, even as he shakes his head.

“I’m sorry, Felix,” he says, voice cracking. He’s trembling already. “My eye—I don’t think I can—”

“It’s fine,” Felix says quickly. He swipes his hand away. “We don’t have to if you don’t want to.” 

Dimitri opens his mouth. He has that look on his face, the one that Felix knows all too well. Felix places a hand over his mouth instead, stemming the inevitable apologies.

“It’s _fine,”_ he whispers. He feels it as Dimitri deflates, his breath heating his palm, and it is only then that he takes away the hand.

“... All right,” Dimitri murmurs. 

Felix nods, satisfied. He kisses the space under Dimitri’s eye, and moves down.

There are a lot of places he could start. Dimitri’s neck, perhaps. The web of scars on his back, or the dip of his clavicle that trails to his chest (which Felix still wants to get his hands on), are also good contenders.

Instead, he takes Dimitri's left hand. He slips a finger under the satin fabric of the glove, and traces the skin of his palms. 

His hands are calloused. Felix wants to feel them on him, running down his sides, fingers digging into his waist, skimming over his hip and lower. But the last time Felix ever felt the warmth of Dimitri’s hands was before the rebellion. When they were _children_. Since then, Felix has never seen Dimitri in public once without his hands being covered in some form or another.

He’s always had his suspicions as to why, but this is the first time he can confirm it.

“Can I take this off?”

For one long moment, Felix thinks Dimitri will say no. When he nods, then, Felix wastes no time. He curls a finger under the silk, slips the glove off, and tosses it on the bed.

It’s obvious why Dimitri was so hesitant to let him see what was underneath. There are the usual nicks at the pads of his fingers, and callouses that track across his hand, but what drags his gaze away are the burns that cover the spread of his palm, licking their way around to the other side. They’re dark and splotchy, uneven and asymmetrical, and Felix can only imagine how much they hurt when those hands were trying to pull people out of flames. 

The feeling of Dimitri’s bare skin on Felix’s own is overwhelming. Felix can only stare, even as Dimitri tries to tug his hand away.

“Is this why you always wear gloves?” Felix asks evenly, tightening his grip.

Dimitri stops struggling, then. He is silent for a long while. Felix waits, the warmth of his fingers a grounding point as Dimitri opens and closes his mouth. When he finally speaks, Felix is rubbing the back of his hand with his thumb.

“My hands are monstrous,” Dimitri confesses. He says this quickly, as if they aren’t worth the scrap of time he is spending discussing them. “They aren’t fit to be seen. They have hurt so many, and I…”

He trails off as Felix brings his hand to his mouth. When Felix presses a kiss to his fingers, featherlight, Dimitri’s mouth falls open.

“‘Monstrous’, you say.” Felix lifts his head. “Dimitri. I asked you to let me tell you what I honestly think about you.” He narrows his eyes. “I think that’s bullshit.”

“Felix—”

“You’ve hurt people with these hands, yes. But you’ve also—healed.” Felix swallows, but he keeps his eyes on Dimitri’s face. Dimitri still looks bewildered, as if Felix is speaking a different language. Felix gives him a pointed look. “Whether it’s you—I don’t fucking know. When you’re potting plants in your garden, or playing with the kids at the orphanage, or when you’re rebuilding the _fucking continent._ ” 

Then, quieter, he adds, “Besides. I’ve hurt people, too.” He swallows, again. It’s like choking down a stone. “We all have.”

They fought in a _war,_ for fuck’s sake. Felix has pulled swords out of more warm bodies than he can count, piled corpses high enough that he had to dump them into ditches in the woods. His hands are soaked in blood.

“But you did not enjoy it,” Dimitri says, softly. “You did not revel in the pain of others. Not like I did.”

“You…” Felix huffs. “You weren’t in a good place. I won’t pretend to understand what was going on. I didn’t. I still don’t.” 

His refusal to understand was foolish, in retrospect. And it is still hard to admit, that his pride and anger were—are—fickle things. He has only just started to realise it. “But… you’re trying to atone for it now. And beating yourself up for it won’t help.”

Dimitri’s breathing is shaky, and his bottom lip trembles. Felix badly wants to press his finger there, but his hands are still caressing Dimitri’s own. 

“It’s... difficult,” Dimitri admits quietly. “Some days, I find myself thinking the same thoughts as back then, and I realise that I haven’t changed any.”

“It’s not—it’s not meant to be easy,” Felix says. “But you’re trying. I can see how hard you’re trying.” He takes a deep breath, and interlaces their fingers. “And I’m proud of you.”

By the time he finishes, Dimitri’s eye is shimmering. His expression wobbles, tender and disbelieving all at once, and Felix feels choked. 

This atmosphere between them is far too gentle. Achingly sweet. Felix can barely think through the softness scraping his throat raw, and it leaves him blindsided and utterly weak. 

Felix Hugo Fraldarius _. Weak._

“Anyway. I like your hands,” Felix says, lamely. The sweetness hanging between them dissolves in an instant, and Dimitri huffs a short laugh. He is still teary, but Felix feels like he can look at him, now, and remember how to breathe again.

Which is good, because he wants to return to Dimitri’s body. He wasn’t supposed to get so sappy. It just—happened. Because it’s Dimitri.

Fuck. He has it bad.

“Objectively, they are still ugly hands,” Dimitri says, eye very bright. He holds one up, flopping it about as if it is the most offending thing on the continent. “The scars are grotesque.”

“Dimitri,” Felix warns. He swipes the hand and kisses it again, exasperated. “Shut up.”

Dimitri laughs. The sound is sweet and clear. Felix fights the urge to smile at him like some sort of starstruck lover, or whatever the saying is.

Besides. Dimitri is laughing far too much, in Felix’s opinion. This was supposed to be _sexy._ Clearly, he is doing something wrong if Dimitri is laughing like he’s in bed with a court jester.

Felix does the logical thing, and kisses him again. Dimitri is still smiling against his mouth. They move together softly, gently, as Felix cradles Dimitri’s face between his hands. There is nothing as intoxicating as kissing Dimitri, Felix decides as he reluctantly moves back, and finds Dimitri still smiling up at him, lips swollen and bitten red. 

“Your lips,” Felix says. He bites down the desire to kiss them again. Swallows. “They’re—pretty. Kissing you feels good. More than good. It feels—better than anything else.”

Dimitri’s cheeks are violently red, now, but he leans into Felix’s palm anyway. 

“Do you understand?”

Dimitri nods, dazed. Felix takes in the haziness of his eye, and thumbs at the corner of his mouth, considering.

“Tell me,” he says, suddenly bold. He leans in, until his forehead is pressed against Dimitri’s own. Dimitri’s eye is almost entirely black now, with only a sliver of blue ringing it. “Use your words.”

“Felix—”

Felix skims a hand down his front, and settles his fingers at the base of Dimitri’s throat. Dimitri only shudders. _“Tell me.”_

“Felix, I—” Dimitri’s voice hitches as Felix presses his thumb into the dip of his collarbone. “You—like this. Kissing me.”

“I do,” Felix nods. “I like this a lot.” He keeps eye contact, and watches, satisfied, as Dimitri tries to buck up against him. “And you?”

Dimitri nods, too, much more frantically than Felix. His gaze is becoming unfocused. Felix leans away a little, so he can mouth at the space between his neck and shoulder. “Good. Then we’re in agreement.”

Felix kisses him again. He is rougher, this time, digging his fingers into Dimitri’s shoulders like he is clutching a lifeline. Dimitri’s back arches as he desperately leans into it, hands grasping the nape of his neck. His tongue slides against teeth, and Dimitri’s mouth parts, breath hot. Felix tilts his head to deepen the angle, and the sound Dimitri makes is deep and throaty, rumbling in his chest like a lion’s purr.

“You really do love this, don’t you?” Felix murmurs when he breaks away for air. “You’re allowed to want it, you know. Instead of denying yourself.”

Dimitri blinks, still dazed. Still pushing up against Felix, and he makes a noise of protest when Felix pulls away entirely. It melts into a sweeter moan when Felix grazes his teeth against his neck.

“You have no idea how much I’ve wanted to kiss your neck,” Felix says, voice low. Dimitri gasps as Felix presses his mouth to the soft skin under his ear, right over his silvery birthmark. Gasps again when Felix trails lower. “Bite it, too.” Felix ghosts a breath on the column of his neck, feeling Dimitri squirm before he finally bites into the skin there. “You’re—fuck. Perfect.”

Felix coaxes a dark bruise into the paleness of Dimitri’s neck. Dimitri groans, his grip on the back of Felix's head enticingly strong, and—fuck. Dimitri really is perfect. The way he reciprocates to Felix's fingers and his mouth is far lovelier than whatever Felix’s half-baked dreams had conjured up. Dimitri pants Felix's name like a prayer, like it’s the only word he’s capable of remembering, his face overwhelmed and lustful and lost in pleasure all at once, and Felix hasn't even gotten his hands on his chest yet.

“Felix,” Dimitri moans. “Ah, _Felix_ — _”_

Felix draws back. The bruise is dark, he notes appreciatively, and he presses a kiss to it before he moves further down, latching onto another patch of skin he can mark up.

Dimitri throws his head back. His eye is wild. 

“Felix, _please_ — _“_

Felix presses his tongue against his skin and licks, feels the indents where his teeth were, and where Dimitri’s skin had bloomed. “Please what?”

“Please,” Dimitri begs. His eye is shining, his face is beautifully flushed. “I—I won’t last for much longer.”

Dimitri sounds utterly wrecked. Felix pulls away, astonished. “All we’ve done is—”

Suddenly, Dimitri grabs his hand, and manoeuvres it clumsily until it brushes against the inside of his thigh. Felix looks down, and—fuck. 

Dimitri’s cock strains against the front of his trousers. When Felix presses a finger against the bulge, it feels impossibly hard.

He feels stunned. _“Dimitri_ — _”_

“I have never—” Dimitri shudders and squirms, pliant and needy, as Felix palms at his crotch. “No one has ever told me—the things you are saying right now. I—hearing it is driving me wild.” He whines when Felix retracts his hand, and paws at it, trying to place it back where it was. “So _please.”_

Fuck. _Fuck._ Dimitri is begging him. And Felix—there is no man in Fódlan with the willpower to resist this.

Felix growls, and pushes Dimitri back on to the bed.

“You are unbelievable. Didn’t you notice me staring at you these past few weeks?” he demands between frantic kisses at Dimitri’s throat, at the junction of his shoulder. “Everything you wore. _Everything._ I could hardly think straight when you walked into the room, looking like that. _”_ Felix dips his tongue between his pecs, and Dimitri nearly howls. “You kept me up half the night. Every single fucking night.”

Dimitri makes a strangled noise. “I—You couldn’t possibly have—”

He breaks off with a whine when Felix brushes a finger dangerously close to his nipple. 

“I know what I dreamt,” Felix murmurs. “I know what I thought of, too, on the nights I couldn’t sleep.” He looks up, and catches Dimitri’s darkened gaze. “Do you understand? _You_ made me act like this.”

Dimitri trembles. His gasp is broken, pitching to a high keen when Felix splays a hand across his chest. Felix’s skin is on fire, and his hands move of their own will when they cup a tit each. 

Dimitri gasps and bucks up his hips, but Felix is too busy admiring how gorgeous and plush he is, and how beautifully he has filled out in the past few years. Felix has fantasised about this for days, so being able to feel him, finally, under his own hands… it seems almost unreal.

“Do you remember,” Felix says, breathless, as he massages the skin, “that morning, when you knocked on my door?”

Dimitri only nods. He seems unable to speak, and it’s dizzying, really, how debauched he looks, just from Felix’s hands and mouth.

“You thought I was having nightmares,” Felix continues. He tilts his head, and allows his breath to ghost over a peak. Dimitri jerks. “I wasn’t. I told you already. _You_ were the one keeping me up at night.”

Dimitri is writhing under him, now. 

“Felix…” he groans, and it is this final, needy sound, and the intoxicating way his mouth parts, that breaks Felix.

“Oh, fuck,” Felix groans. He digs his fingers into the dip of Dimitri’s waist, and rests his forehead in the crook of his neck. “I’m terrible at using my words. And Dimitri, as much as I want to try, I—” he swallows, “don’t want to wait.”

Dimitri is still quivering. Felix simply holds him. “So let me show you,” he says, voice rough. “Will you let me?”

Dimitri nods, the tip of his chin brushing against the top of Felix’s head. It still smarts from that earlier headbutt, but Felix ignores it, and gently, gently, thumbs at his stiff peaks.

It’s mesmerising, how sensitive Dimitri is. Every press of Felix’s finger—just his _finger_ —has his breath stuttering. When Felix looks up, he finds that Dimitri’s eye is entirely wet, and there is sweat at his temple. He is a vision like this, all dark bruises sweet on damp skin, flushed and utterly delirious. The only sound he manages to pant is a jumbled mess of profanities, and Felix’s name. Conversation has left him, and Felix is smugly proud of it.

Felix has never been so hard in his life.

His impatience reaches a new peak. He wants—he wants to watch as Dimitri unravels under him, to savour the sight of him as he comes undone by Felix’s own hands. But the memory of Dimitri clamming up just moments before, and turning away with shame written all across his face, is enough to make him pause.

“Do you really want this?” Felix asks abruptly. Dimitri nods far too quickly, and Felix shakes his head. “I want to hear you say it.” 

Felix thinks of how Dimitri had drawn the covers over his body. He thinks back to when he had first let his hands wander, and how Dimitri had brought his knees to his chest, hiding as much of himself as he possibly could. Felix worries his lip, and averts his gaze. “If not—if you don’t want to—we could just—sleep, or whatever—”

He’s cut off by a hand sliding into his hair. Felix inhales sharply. When he looks up, he’s met with a gaze so heated it steals his breath in one fell swoop. 

“Felix,” Dimitri growls. His grip tightens. His eye is blazing. “I want to.”

Ah. 

Any thought of stopping slides neatly from Felix’s mind. Finally. _Finally._ Hearing Dimitri say that he _wants_ this—wants Felix—is—hah. How Felix even pitched ‘sleep’ as an option when Dimitri looks so eager… fucking _hell._

“Good,” Felix tells him, softly. It is the last thing he says before he closes his mouth around a nipple. 

With another groan, Dimitri throws his head back against the pillow, his hand carding through Felix’s hair in a slow, unsteady rhythm. Felix concentrates on gently sucking a stiffening nub. He stays gentle, mostly, using the tip of his tongue to flick and lave over it until Dimitri is a whimpering mess again, but the graze of his teeth elicits a lovely reaction, too: Dimitri cries out, tightens the grip in Felix’s hair, and hooks a leg around Felix’s waist.

Dimitri’s thighs only crush Felix to his chest, to the point where Felix has no idea where the lines of him stop and Dimitri begins. He doesn’t care, either. It’s impossible to, when he sucks harder, and Dimitri starts rutting against him like a man possessed.

 _If heaven exists,_ Felix thinks, delirious, _then this must be it._

Somehow, he manages to drag his fingers away from Dimitri’s waist. He presses one last kiss to his nipple, revelling in the way Dimitri’s chest heaves at the contact, before he pulls away reluctantly. 

Dimitri makes an unhappy noise, but his breath hitches again when Felix brushes his hand against the softness of his stomach. 

“You’re worried about this?” Felix asks, breath warm on Dimitri’s skin. Dimitri’s answer is an incoherent babble. Which is good, because he shouldn’t be coherent enough to talk. 

He slides out of Dimitri’s grip, and travels down. Dimitri’s stomach is softer than Felix remembers it, softer still as he gently presses his mouth to the subtle dips in his skin. The hair dusting it is fine and golden, and knowing that the sharp edges of his abs have softened to more rounded curves is nearly blinding.

Dimitri isn’t covering his eye anymore, but his face is still red, mouth still parted. It is only when Felix rubs a thumb along his side that his expression settles to something more sombre.

“You don’t—” Felix starts. Swallows, and when he looks at the soft trail of hair down Dimitri’s stomach, he feels choked. “You had no idea what you looked like when we found you.” 

It is difficult to forget the moment Felix first saw Dimitri without his armour during the war. He had had no idea that skin could look so grey, or that a person’s ribs could be counted like that, extending down his body like the rungs of a ladder. Or that someone’s belly could be concave, as if he’d had his innards scraped out like the seeds of a melon. Felix had never believed that a Crest by itself could keep someone alive—not until that day, at least, when he saw the husk of Dimitri standing outside his door.

Hair had dusted Dimitri’s stomach then, too, but it was different from Felix’s own, and different from the other men. It was downy, like the soft, almost-fur that Felix had seen snatches of on newborns. Elsewhere, Felix had only seen this downy hair on the children of the slums. Their spindly limbs, the skin drawn tight and lifeless over their joints, had been covered with it, too.

It was never supposed to cover the bodies of adult men.

Later, when Felix had fled to his room, he had sunk to the floor and let his head drop into his hands. Seeing _Dimitri_ like that, his body as only a worthless tool to him, incapable of loving, to wither down until it could be discarded and destroyed…

“Felix…” Dimitri says softly. He has propped himself up on one elbow. Out of habit, Felix’s eyes follow the length of his arm. The hair there is golden and fine, but it is normal. Exactly how it is meant to be.

It took a long time for Dimitri to reach that stage. Longer, still, for him to build enough love for himself to take care of his body willingly.

“You had no _idea,”_ Felix croaks. “How terrified I was.”

“Oh, Felix,” Dimitri says sadly. He reaches a hand down, and rubs Felix’s cheek with his thumb. Dimitri’s touch is grounding, and Felix’s trembling subsides when he leans into it. “I cannot apologise enough for causing you such pain. I am so sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s not your fault.” Felix wishes he had told him earlier, but—well. He’s saying it now. “My point is—you look much better now.” Something pricks behind his eyelid, even as the words start to spill out like a dam breaking. “You’re—fuck, Dimitri, you’re _healthy._ You eat. You eat three meals a day, and then you go for seconds, and you don’t know how happy it makes me, seeing you take care of yourself like this.”

His cheeks burn. Felix presses his face into Dimitri’s stomach, and hides it there. This is probably the longest admission he’s ever made without storming off, and the urge to get up and leave still holds strong.

Somehow, Dimitri starts to chuckle. Felix looks up, still choked, as Dimitri’s belly shakes.

“... Even if I am getting fat?” Dimitri asks, wryly. His smile is a sweet, crooked thing. “And slow?”

Felix turns his head, and kisses his stomach. “That’s _good,_ ” he says fiercely, before amending, “And you’re not even fat. You’ve just got some padding. That’s all.”

“Padding,” Dimitri snorts. “Imagine. The King of Fódlan, getting heavy around the middle.”

“And?” Felix asks. “Who cares? _I_ like it.”

The corners of Dimitri’s mouth lift, and he huffs out a laugh. The self-loathing in his movements hasn’t disappeared completely yet, but he looks happier than he was before. Felix is eager to see the day Dimitri sees himself as Felix sees him. 

But he is still far too coherent for what they are doing right now, so Felix starts sucking a bruise right above his waistband.

Dimitri makes a strangled noise, and arches his back as Felix works around the curve of his hip. Felix gently pushes him down, and comes across a scar as he does. It’s a deep, nasty gash; one he hasn’t seen before.

“Where did you get this?” Felix asks.

“... Truthfully, I have no idea,” Dimitri admits. His voice is still breathy, but the sorrow is creeping in again. “You know how muddled my memories from the time I spent wandering are.”

“And you don’t like your scars.”

“Not particularly, no.” A pause. Dimitri tries to shift the blanket again.

Felix hums. He traces the scar, and decides on a different approach. “You don’t have to,” he says, honestly. It’s not like he likes his own. They’re not things he likes to look at—he prefers to see them as reminders that he is fallible. “But they don’t—detract from you, or anything.”

“They really are ugly, though.” Dimitri sounds incredibly vulnerable. Felix smothers the urge to kiss him again, and keeps going.

“Perhaps to you,” Felix says. “But I barely notice them.” He pauses, considering his next words carefully. “Besides. They are proof that you survived. That you made it, despite—” and here is where his voice cracks, “despite what you believed.”

“Felix…” 

Dimitri’s eye shimmers. It continues to shimmer as Felix kisses his skin again, and tenderly sucks a bruise. The mark he leaves is something darker and less permanent than his scar, and perhaps Dimitri will like it enough to let him make it again when it fades. 

Felix moves down, until he is in front of the strain of Dimitri’s trousers. “Can I?”

Dimitri nods. He reaches down to help shimmy off his breeches, brows furrowed in concentration—frustration, even, when they stick stubbornly to his thighs. He is eager, though, and Felix sits back and watches the show. 

Dimitri doesn’t take his time. One day, Felix might ask him to tease a little, but right now he is— _fuck_. He’s mesmerising. Felix takes in the full scope of Dimitri with his bare thighs on display for him, and Goddess. He thought the motion of the fabric sliding down his skin was torture enough, but his thighs are so muscled and so big that Felix can hardly think. They’re tantalising, not in the way they were when they were covered, but they are good in a different way. Good, because he can finally get his hands on them. 

He is gorgeous. When Dimitri sputters, Felix realises he has said this out loud. 

Well. He’s already bared his heart. He may as well go the entire way. 

“You are,” Felix tells him honestly.

To his credit, Dimitri only takes a moment to regain his composure.

“As are you,” he smiles.

“We’re not talking about me right now.”

“But I want to— _Felix!”_

Felix grins as he mouths against the inside of Dimitri’s thighs. He kisses there, too, and gently bites down after. Dimitri tenses and squirms, his yelp dropping into something more ragged. He’s holding onto the sides of his legs, seemingly trying not to crush Felix’s head with them. Felix huffs. He’s wanted this for ages, and _now_ Dimitri decides to hold back. How noble of him.

Felix presses a kiss over the last bite. His marks look good on Dimitri, a blooming plum colour against the jagged remnants of his scars. They’ll feel better still when they’re hidden under his clothes tomorrow, where Felix can slip a hand between Dimitri’s legs in their next council meeting and press his thumb against them… 

Felix feels himself harden in his pants as Dimitri reaches down. Dimitri curls a hand in Felix’s hair and holds him there, letting Felix make a muffled sound into his skin. Felix groans, and tries to nose at Dimitri’s cock, but his smallclothes—his fucking _smallclothes_ —are a big problem right now. Almost as big as the bulge itself.

He pulls away with an impatient noise. Dimitri catches on, and releases Felix’s hair to take them off, breath coming quick. Felix takes over, finally managing to slip the fabric down the contours of Dimitri’s thighs, and—wow. Fuck.

Dimitri’s cock is—impressive. It’s thick and long, flushed and weeping at the tip along the curve of his stomach, and it’s _big._ Huge. Felix’s own length jolts at the sight of it.

Well. Felix isn't a _coward._ He can take it.

Dimitri stirs right as Felix wraps a hand around the base, face red. He makes a choked sound, and closes his eye when Felix ghosts his breath along the tip—crying out, soft and weak, when Felix parts his lips in an open-mouthed kiss.

“Dimitri,” Felix says. His voice is rougher than he’s ever heard it. Dimitri groans again, as he hums around the head of his cock, precome staining his lips. “I want to make you feel good.” 

He has no idea where the words are coming from, but as he licks down the underside of his length and Dimitri keens from above him, he finds that he really doesn’t care.

Felix has never felt like this before. Wanting Dimitri to be happy isn’t anything new, but this desire to make Dimitri come undone and build him back up again with his own hands is something Felix has only thought about in the past couple of weeks. It would be a strange feeling if it were about anyone else, but this is Dimitri, the man who has held Felix’s heart in his fist for nearly his entire life. 

“Will you let me?” Felix murmurs. He kisses him again, reverent, and catches Dimitri’s gaze. Dimitri is looking at him with the sweetest mix of tenderness and desire and barely repressed hope. 

“Felix…”

“Dimitri. Let me, won’t you?”

Dimitri makes a sound, then. It’s a short laugh, drunk on happiness and delirious with lust, and it makes something in Felix’s heart catch flight. 

_“Please,”_ Dimitri whispers.

Fuck. Dimitri is gorgeous. Felix loves this man, and that is the last thing he thinks before he takes his cock in his mouth.

Dimitri whines. Felix sinks down, slowly, and slides his fingers up the base, where his mouth won’t reach. Dimitri is warm and wet, jerking into Felix, becoming more erratic when Felix hollows his mouth.

A sudden hardness presses on both sides of his head, and when Felix darts up— _oh._ It’s fucking perfect, the way Dimitri’s thighs tighten around his head, and how he throws his face back, trembling like a leaf. His mouth is open, lips glistening, and the way his fingers twist and tear into the sheets is fucking divine.

“Felix, oh, _Felix_ — _”_

Felix pulls off with a pop. Dimitri whines in frustration, digging his heels into the small of Felix’s back. He only jerks to a stop when Felix lightly slaps the outside of his thigh. 

“Eyes on me,” Felix orders. Dimitri’s eye snaps to him instantly, and Felix holds that lidded gaze as he takes him back in his mouth again.

Slowly, he builds a steady rhythm. Dimitri is big, a challenge to work his lips around—but Felix has always enjoyed a challenge, and this is one like no other. Dimitri stretches Felix pleasantly, leaves his jaw aching and somehow wanting more. His skin feels hot as Dimitri eyes him, greedy and shameless in a way Felix has never seen from him before. Dimitri drinks Felix in like he is starving, even as his eye shines with something else entirely.

Felix twists his wrist experimentally as he strokes up the base. The reaction is instantaneous; a hand slips all too quickly into his hair, and Felix lets himself relax as Dimitri guides his mouth down further on his cock.

Ah. Letting go like this, allowing Dimitri to take the reins and watching him take pleasure for himself—makes Felix sigh, even around the cock in his mouth. He’s already hard, straining almost painfully against fabric, and Felix suddenly becomes acutely aware that he’s still covered below the waist. At this rate, he’ll just end up coming in his pants. _Fuck._

Dimitri’s fingers are still wound tight in Felix’s hair. He presses them down, insistent, until Felix is bobbing nearly halfway down his length. Felix is using both of his hands, now, pumping and twisting, quickening his pace when Dimitri makes more of those sweet noises that leave his mouth in an incoherent, messy stream. The weight on Felix’s tongue, quickly becoming familiar to him, twitches. He laps at it eagerly, the sound slick and utterly obscene.

“Felix,” Dimitri babbles. His cock is throbbing in Felix’s mouth, warm and hot and— “Felix, you are so beautiful—so perfect—oh, Felix, sweetheart, please—”

Felix feels his face redden as Dimitri gently tugs him off his cock. He yelps, indignant, but Dimitri just pulls him up in one, swift motion onto his lap. They are face to face now; Felix’s chest heaving, Dimitri’s pupil blown wide.

“I wasn’t done,” Felix rasps. His throat is hoarse and his jaw aches, but he still paws at Dimitri’s chest. He shudders to a stop when Dimitri starts to palm his neglected crotch.

Oh. _Oh_. Dimitri’s hand is big, and his grip is firm, and the moan that spills from Felix’s lips is so fucking embarrassing, but he doesn't care. Not when Dimitri is looking at him like this.

"Felix," Dimitri murmurs, low and husky in his ear as a rough hand slips into his smallclothes. Felix squirms weakly in his lap. "You're gorgeous." 

The pad of his thumb sweeps over the head of Felix’s cock, and the decisive movement of his hand makes Felix tip forward, unstable even as Dimitri anchors him with his other hand. He breathes, ragged, as Dimitri continues to stroke him, and tries to scramble together a rational thought.

"I want us to come together," Dimitri continues, and really, forget the idea of any rational thought, because his voice is so _deep_. It’s rich and sensual, commanding, and the way Dimitri murmurs into his ear makes him tremble.

Felix is out of breath. Still, he manages to gasp out a small protest. "Fuck, Dimitri—this is about you—"

"No," Dimitri says, undoing Felix’s smallclothes roughly, watching with a possessive smugness as his cock springs out, flushed and wet already. Dimitri slips Felix’s hair ties off, too, and watches as his hair spills over his shoulders, a glint of approval in his eye.

Felix feels like he is being ravaged, pinned by the intensity of Dimitri’s gaze, and he doesn’t know how this is happening so fast given that Dimitri was so nervous before. Again, though, he also doesn’t care. 

"You've made me feel like the luckiest man on this earth," Dimitri murmurs into the shell of his ear. "Allow me to worship you like you deserve."

Then, he takes both their cocks in one large hand, buries his face in Felix's neck, and starts to move.

Felix sees stars. It's—fuck, his skin is _burning_. This—Dimitri’s thick, strong fingers, wrapped around both himself and Felix, is far too much. Felix nearly jerks off his lap, a litany of incomprehensible babble escaping his mouth. He’s forgotten how normal speech works, because Dimitri's hand is warm and strong, twisting and pumping this way and that, and Felix's hand is on his back, feeling the powerful muscles flex as they work to wreck the both of them. Dimitri’s jaw presses into his neck as he bites, with reckless abandon, into the pale skin there. His teeth are sharp, but Felix only cries out, wanting more.

"Dimitri," he babbles. His voice is almost a wail. "Dimitri, I'm—"

Dimitri looks up. His gaze is sinful as he catches Felix’s eye. 

"You're perfect," he mutters, and something in Felix jolts.

He wrenches a hand up until he’s grabbing Dimitri’s chest. His breath hitches, again and again and even more so when he rolls a nipple between his fingers, feels the stiffness of it as Dimitri’s own hand stutters.

"Felix—" Dimitri groans, as Felix massages him. "Felix—I'm close—"

"Good," Felix pants. Dimitri's movements are getting sloppy. Haphazard, as he works around the both of them, and now Dimitri throbs against him, hard and insistent and incredibly big. Felix wishes, mind a haze, that he were on that cock, riding him, even, and that carnal image is enough to— "Fuck—Dima— _Dima_ —I'm going to—"

Felix slumps forward, his hand still on Dimitri’s chest as he spills himself across Dimitri's stomach. His breath comes harsh and weak as he rides his high, even as Dimitri keeps stroking, the pace = brutal now that he’s chasing his own release. Felix is still panting in his ear even as Dimitri’s grip tightens, and it takes a moment more of frantic rutting before Dimitri is coming with a shout, his release splattering on Felix’s thigh.

Felix collapses, burying his face in Dimitri’s shoulder. Dimitri strokes his back, still panting. His breathing is harsh, but his smile is all unguarded affection.

That was—wow. 

"I said I wanted to make you feel good," Felix mumbles. He's slurring, now, drowsy, because Dimitri’s shoulder makes a very good pillow.

"And you did," Dimitri rumbles. He is still stroking Felix’s back, hands large and warm as they rub circles into his skin. "I told you. You made me feel cherished in a way I could never imagine." 

His next words are quieter. "I wanted to return the favour."

Felix blinks. "You didn't… have to."

"But I wanted to," Dimitri whispers. His voice hitches, then, a small subtle thing that not many would notice, and Felix stirs. "Felix, you have no idea how much I wanted to."

Felix lifts his head. He starts when he sees the wetness on Dimitri’s cheeks.

"You're crying," Felix wonders. He uses his clean hand to wipe the tears away from under his eye. "Why are you crying?"

"I—I don't know," Dimitri manages. He takes Felix’s hand away from his face, and holds it in both of his. Tenderly, so Felix feels like he is both falling apart and coming back together. "Rest assured, I am not upset in the slightest. It is just that—having you here with me, being intimate with you and sharing pleasure together… my heart feels close to bursting."

How Dimitri manages to sound so _earnest_ when he says things that make Felix sputter and hide his face will forever be beyond him.

"You're ridiculous," Felix says, shaking his head. His ears, traitorously, continue to burn. "Come here."

Felix pushes him down, far more gently this time, so that they’re lying down again. Being on top of Dimitri allows for an easy way for Felix to pepper kisses all over him. He starts on his forehead, then his nose, high on his cheekbones, on his still-damp cheeks, and then chastely on the lips. Dimitri keeps smiling through his tears, even more so when Felix huffs a laugh into his neck. It’s a lovely sight.

“You did good,” Felix tells him, when he’s gotten his fill and has cleaned both of them up. He ends up sprawled out on Dimitri’s chest, resting his cheek there so that he can hear the exact beat of his heart.

Dimitri grins, and manoeuvres them onto their sides. Felix tries to swat him away until a determined, _insistent_ hand starts to caress his thigh, at which point he gives up with an exasperated sound.

Dimitri kisses him. “And you were wonderful, Felix.” 

“Don’t try to outdo me.”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

Felix isn’t sure what he expected after he climbed onto Dimitri’s lap, but this… is nice. He looks at Dimitri’s tired, content face, at the marks littering his skin and the drool on the corner of his mouth, and wonders why the hell he didn’t do this earlier. They could have been doing this for ages. Nevermind that it had taken a long, embarrassing confession and a fuckton of unpacking for Dimitri to realise Felix was head over heels for him. And actually believe it, too.

Even in this warm afterglow, it still makes Felix’s head spin that Dimitri never once noticed how much he had stared at him.

“Did you really not notice me staring?” he asks, reluctantly pulling himself up from Dimitri’s chest. “Not even once?”

Dimitri shakes his head. "I honestly had no idea," he says. His cheeks are still red, but he looks blissed out and sleepy, and his eyepatch is squished into the pillow. The sight is pleasing.

Then, Dimitri lifts his head. “Well, Sylvain did tell me once that you were—as he puts it,” he coughs, slyly, “'eyeing me like a piece of meat.' Obviously, I did not believe him, but...”

Felix freezes. 

"I'm going to kill him," he mutters darkly. He tries to get up, but his bones feel like jelly, so he flops back down again, back onto Dimitri’s chest. Dimitri is still stroking his thigh, expression fond, and Felix’s words end up being muffled. "Tomorrow. I'm killing him tomorrow."

Dimitri chuckles. "Don't. He was the one who recommended that I should wear these shirts, after all."

Felix stiffens.

Sylvain had recommended that Dimitri wear those shirts? After Felix had confided in him? Privately?

"I've changed my mind," Felix growls. "I'm going to kill him now."

Felix doesn’t get far. Sylvain’s stupid, grinning face is still at the front of his mind when Dimitri wraps his arms around his waist from behind, all calm strength. Felix can’t even kick himself away. 

"But I thought you liked my shirts?" Dimitri says, warm and amused. 

Felix stops wriggling. Dimitri’s breath is hot on his ear, his body shaking. The—traitor, he is laughing. _Laughing_ at Felix.

So Dimitri gets mischievous after sex. Okay. Okay, he can deal with this.

Felix gapes. "So you _did_ know," he accuses. If he were a lesser man, he would be pouting at him.

Dimitri laughs, again. 

"I really had no idea. I'm only just learning it now," he says. He brushes a few stray strands of hair away from Felix’s face, the curve of his mouth disgustingly affectionate. "And to think, this entire time I thought you were trying to conceal some sort of awful illness from me…"

 _Illness._ Of course that is where Dimitri's mind takes him. Honestly.

Felix huffs. "You're ridiculous." He relaxes, and is thankful that his back is to Dimitri’s embrace for what he says next. "I just wanted—you. That's all."

Later, he’ll probably be angry and embarrassed for letting slip such a thing. Now, though, with Dimitri nuzzling the nape of his neck, he really does not care.

"And I, you," Dimitri says, tenderly. 

"Good." Felix pauses. Ugh, his smile is so wide it’s hurting his _face._ "Can we go to sleep now or what?"

Dimitri kisses his hair, and Felix is still smiling. Here is Dimitri, a man with enough kindness to fill the world twice over, a man who has had Felix’s heart in some form or another for his whole life, and Felix got to touch him, press his mouth to every inch of skin he could find, and kiss countless promises of how much he is loved into his body afterwards. 

Fuck. He is so goddamn lucky.

"Thank you, Felix," Dimitri says, tenderly. "For everything." His voice dips until it is sweet and low. "I may not be wholly comfortable with myself, still, but—” here he laughs into Felix's hair, an apologetic, lovely sound, "—your honesty, and your words… they helped, truly."

Felix has no words he could use to adequately answer that with, so instead he turns his head and kisses him. Dimitri smiles against his mouth. 

"You must let me return the sentiment one day," Dimitri continues, voice still so fond that Felix groans, because he knows that tone. It means Dimitri is about to launch into one of his stupid, honest and _embarrassing_ rambles, and Felix can hardly leave while Dimitri’s arm is still wrapped around him.

Dimitri's hand starts tracing the curve of his spine. "Really, Felix. You are a vision. You are so beautiful, and so gorgeous, and I really cannot get enough of looking at you—"

" _Please_ can we go to sleep."

Dimitri laughs, again, and Felix’s request goes completely ignored.

  
  
  


In the end, Felix resolves his little problem. (Or _problems_ , to be more accurate. because clearly his ogling went far and beyond Dimitri’s chest.) It’s only slightly embarrassing that Felix fixes his problem by pouncing on Dimitri like a starving panther, but it does mean that he has entered a relationship with him by the end of it, at least. Which is obviously the best part of it all, because now Felix can pounce on that chest whenever he asks. On most days, anyway.

So, this is good. Better than good, actually. The whole thing is incredibly pleasing to think about.

However. The process has also been... painful. It was embarrassing and downright humiliating, and as much as Felix appreciated finally being able to touch Dimitri and his chest, he still hasn’t forgotten how hellish his life was before that. Even if Dimitri has.

Felix had been left looking like a fool. In front of everyone, apparently, because somehow, word had got out. And even Annette had laughed at him afterwards, eyes sparkling, and Felix couldn’t do anything but flush in shame, because it was _Annette._

But Felix is good at playing games when he sets his mind to it. And he plays to _win._

Which is precisely why he is doing this.

"Dimitri," Felix says, as he strides into the training grounds. Dimitri looks up. He looks tired, but the look of happiness on his face when he sees Felix falls into one of shock almost immediately. "Spar with me."

"Felix!" Dimitri squeaks. His mouth is hanging open, to Felix’s satisfaction, and his eye is wide. "You—your—"

"What's wrong?" Felix asks. He steps closer, careful and deliberate—close enough so that he can watch Dimitri's Adam's apple bob. "Are you sparring today or not?"

"I—not now," Dimitri manages. His eye is roving over Felix's body, almost as if there is nothing more important for him to do. "I must finish these reports." Dimitri dips his head, and there must be no one in earshot because now he is pleading, absolutely unlike a king. "Felix, please. If you wear that, I will hardly be able to control myself."

He sounds so earnest and urgent. There is nothing suggestive in his voice, and it’s not at all like how husky he gets in bed. The panic on his face is almost palpable.

Felix only laughs. He purposefully hikes his boots up, so they stretch over his thighs, and watches as Dimitri sputters and drops his papers. "Mm. Yet _you_ thought it fitting to wear those shirts every time _we_ sparred."

"That was hardly my fault!"

"I know," Felix smirks, victorious. The shirts weren’t Dimitri’s fault, not really, but he still wants Dimitri to feel what he felt. 

So he steps closer, and grabs the front of Dimitri’s tunic. He reaches up and leans into Dimitri's ear. 

"Memorise this feeling,” Felix whispers. His lips brush the slope of Dimitri’s neck, right above his birthmark, and Dimitri shudders under him. “Think of it the next time you don’t believe me when I tell you how you make me feel."

Dimitri's cheeks bloom a lovely cherry colour. His hands flutter about Felix’s hips, over the length of his thighs, clearly wanting. Unfortunately for him, however, they are in a public space.

It feels nice, not being the embarrassed one for once.

Felix steps away. "I'll see you later," he says, meaningful and casual.

Dimitri nods. It must be all he is capable of right now, because he looks like someone hit him over his head. His gaze, suddenly heated, is still fixated on Felix’s mouth. Felix huffs, fond, and hopes he never looked _that_ hungry.

Felix walks over to the weapons rack. Distantly, he hears Sylvain’s tell-tale approach behind him, and puts down his sword to listen as Sylvain asks Dimitri what's wrong.

"I think I may have a problem," comes Dimitri's voice, high and strained, and Felix bites down his laughter.

Watching Dimitri get this bothered feels nice. Felix only hopes, for both his sake and Dimitri’s, that he manages to find an outlet for it soon.

**Author's Note:**

> this was truly a labour of love! thank you for commenting, whether on the km or here. your messages really mean the world to me <3 
> 
> (op if you're here.... i'm only sorry this took four months rip but its fine. its Fine its here now.)
> 
> i am on twitter [here](https://twitter.com/honeybakedtea), come say hello!


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